Distant Hills
by Blue Flaming Wings
Summary: Happiness truly does follow sorrow. But no one said that such a path would be a easy one. Only hours have passed since the Castle has fallen and its dark shadow can already be felt, on them and on the world.
1. They are Back

Distant Hills

_The island bathes in the sun's bright rays_

_Distant hills wear a shroud of gray_

There were birds in the sky.

Normally, Ico hated the feathered creatures, hated them with every fiber of his small being. Always, without fail, whenever one of the fowls appeared on the horizon, gliding with ease upon invisible currents, soaring above the vast forest canopy, hooting and squawking and cawing loudly – piercing out above the many earthly emissions of Mother Nature – without fail Ico would feel his shoulders hunch over, his back tense like a rod, his face freeze over and a ugly scowl bloom in its place, fierce and unyielding, with his teeth bared like a rapid dog's.

Before, the young horned boy did not truly care about the birds at all. The great variety of them – doves, pigeons, eagles, ravens, hawks, vultures, bluebirds, mockingbirds and the like – they had all been the same to him. Birds had not played a role in his previous life save for the given fact of their existence; a simple presence that flickered and faded into the background of his everyday life back in the village.

But then he was sent to be sacrificed – and everything changed.

After that, a new-found hatred for birds was the least of the many transformations that occurred. In that sense, the Elder Eyes of Morisiwa had gotten what they wanted – the boy who had been sent to the Castle in the Mist was dead. It had happened all so suddenly too, in a flash, like that of a sudden lightening strike. In the span of a single day, Ico had morphed into something different, something foreign. Even with his struggle all behind him, locked safely away and buried deep within, still he surprised himself with his small quirks- with the way he jumped at every shadow that crossed their woodland path, or how the first thing he had done the moment he entered the forest was climb up a tree and knock down a branch, or how the moment she pushed herself up from the sandy shore Ico had immediately grabbed onto Yorda's hand, and dragged her forward. Unaware, at least, until she made a small squeak of protest, that he was squeezing onto her hand so tightly. Actually, the last one was not so surprising, after all, every single change was because of her.

There was a flock of birds above their heads – seagulls, as they normally were since the two of them had not wandered too far away from the beach yet – but, for once, Yorda was not sparing the birds even a single glance. Normally, this would be a pleasant turn of events, because usually whenever a bird flew up above, Yorda would drop whatever she would be happening to be doing at the moment and simply stare and stare and stare with this great, wide grin on her her pale, ghostly face. Birds, no matter what kind or shape or form, were absolutely captivating to her. Much more so then her partner apparently; Ico had lost track of the rare times that Yorda's sweet smile was directed at him only to have the moment snatched away by a single hoot. He had lost track of the times he had wished – so desperately wished – for Yorda to look at him that way, as if he was the sole center of her universe, the sole reason why she was living at that moment, at that hour, at that place. It was not as if she didn't look at him, or didn't smile at him, or was not fond of him, Ico knew, knew, knew, just how close they were. But there was something different in the way she looked at the birds, a different quality to her gaze, a different glint in her almond eyes, that made her entire body seem to glow and shimmer in the sunlight. She was real, truly and completely real at that moment, and not like the sprite he normally took her for, ready and willing to vanish into mist before his very eyes. So why, why couldn't he be the anchor that holds her here? He, Ico, her friend, her companion, who saved her, protected her, been at her side the entire time, who – who – who -

Ugh! _Ugh!_ What was so interesting about dumb birds anyway, huh?

Ico was well aware that it was foolhardy to be so, so – confused, angry, upset...hurt – over the simple fact that Yorda liked to watch birds. Many girls back in Morisiwa were similar in that regard, but that's where their commonality ended. Those girls didn't dare even glance in his direction, or glance in a place that he was expected to have once been, or even hint that a horned boy lived in their village at all. No, Yorda was hardly like those girls at all. Yorda was hardly like anyone he had ever met before. She was hardly like any human or living creature that had ever crossed his path, yet she, for all extent and purposes, seemed to be here to stay – with him. So why be so...upset? (He would not say jealous, not even in his own mind) Ico still didn't know. All he knew is that he wanted Yorda to look at him. Not at the birds, or the plants, or the sun, or later tonight at the stars (because he already knows that she will, of course she will) or gaze at the distant hills just barely seen on the horizon; no, he wanted her to look at him and him _alone_.

And, for once, it seems that the Colossi were actually listening to him.

Up in the sky, the last of the birds vanished from view, and still there Yorda stood, still as stone and as white as marble. She had not moved an inch, and hardly seemed to be breathing at all. Ico wasn't sure if she even needed to breath, or eat or sleep. Such a thing didn't seem to suit her, as if she was above such mortal tasks. White, ethereal, otherworldly, yet there she was, in her entirety, simply there, simply standing, simply staring – at him. His head was spinning and his heart was pounding in his chest at the beat of a drum, like those massive ones that would be erected in a circle around the border of Morisiwa at the harvest festival, where the hardiest men, at the prime of their youth, would stand atop tall ladders and strike the drums with long wooden sticks and the fairest of maidens would dance around the drums, ribbons in their hair and ribbons around their wrists and waists. The Elder Eyes would see and a match would be made and vows be exchanged. Every year Ico watched, every year Ico ached, for those rites would never be his.

He wished that Yorda would dance now, white gown twirling around her thin form, but that would be too normal.

Mere seconds ago, everything had been fine. He had been holding her hand as they made their way through the thicket, with his makeshift walking stick held before him, batting away low hanging branches and other vegetation to make a clearer path for the waif of a girl behind him. But then, suddenly, her hand had slipped out of his. Ico had whirled around to see Yorda simply standing there, anchored in place. He met her eyes. And then the world became unsteady.

Never before had he seen such a fervent fire in her eyes. Or in anyone's eyes. Nor had he seen a grin that ever radiated such immense joy. Her smile, right then, right there, was of a different kind then her normal one, and the grin easily put it to shame. In fact, for one dizzying moment Ico wondered if he had ever truly seen her smile before, a _real _smile. Or, for that matter, seen anyone truly smile before, or be truly happy before, if the look, the expression, on Yorda's face was considered happiness, everything else was a mere mirage, a pale placebo, of it. And that smile was for _him._ He, Ico, the cursed child, the horned boy, the outcast, the shame of Morisiwa. The One Who Should Not Exist. No one had ever smiled at him before – or even looked at him. But Yorda was smiling and looking. No. She was staring and staring and staring. And Ico felt so giddy, so lightheaded that he didn't know what to do, or what to think, or -

Yorda's hand moved.

A eerily familiar sense of deja vu came over Ico at that moment. He remembered their first meeting, where she stretched out her hand to touch him just like this, with the same hesitance. But there wasn't curiosity in her eyes now. There was something else, something right on the tip of his tongue but just a bit unreachable, like a dangling chain that hung from a vaulted ceil – no. Pick something different -uh, uh, like- like a apple pie! Yes, it was like a apple pie that hung on a top shelve that he just couldn't reach even though he was on his tiptoes. There was happiness, yes, but there seemed to be a more tender emotion that was layered behind it, one that was a bit more complex. Could it be relief? Why would she feel-

And then the realization dawned.

Yorda's hand was not reaching for his face, but for up higher towards his head, and immediately Ico's heart, which had been beating like the village drums, plummeted down like a rock in a lake. His innards pulled and twisted and knotted and he opened his mouth to say no, knowing, if only by his intonation, that she would understand, but nothing could come out. His body was frozen, his mind was frozen, his face had frozen over again. A flock of birds squawked above, and Ico felt a wave of immense relief – now she would. No. Yorda didn't spare them a glance, and Ico felt the thin hope shatter. With shaking hands, his shoulders heaving up and down, he tried to reach up to move Yorda's hand away. But by then it was too late.

Yorda's hand touched one of the stumps of his horns.

It came like a sudden jolt, flushing down his body and riding over him in a storm. Like the hide tides on the lake shore, where the waters glimmer next to the village in the summer and frost over during the winter, the feeling rushed through his body and then retreated again suddenly, only to push back in and retreat again. All in a blinding moment. But then, the sensation registered and her happy, ecstatic mood suddenly made a horrible, twisted, terrible sense. For, he now knew, jutting out from one of his stumps was a small, tiny, point. Yorda tilted her head, her face a bright white and her tone even lighter, "Deston tuea zon!" They are back. Is what he heard, and the words echoed and echoed and echoed and echoed. They are back. They are back.

The floodgates were blasted open.

Shadowy creatures storming over him, hitting him, punching him, clawing him, throwing him. Falling, falling, falling. Hand held out for him. Screams, screams. They're taking her! Stabbing, killing, I just killed- _They are back. _Run! _Run!_ No. No. No. No! _This is for the good of the village. _Yorda is happy. She must have been worried all along. She wanted him to become better, and now he is all better. All better. All bett- _He is a demon child! He should be killed! He should be killed! _Yorda's smile is gone. Evaporated in a instant. Her hand jerks back. She says something. But he doesn't hear it. _You're a dumb beast!_ The children taunt. _Beastman! Beastman! Why don't you go run into the wild where you belong, huh? The stags will be your friends!_ Stone walls, stone tomb, the last light flushed out, _they're __going to leave me in here? They're going to leave me in here! _So tired. So tired. So hungry, burning, burning, burning. _They are back. _She's nice, isn't she? She doesn't look like the other girls do..._they are __back, _but she's so – frail, _they are back, _and those – those _things, _keep coming after her. And she's so unused to this place, and he couldn't let them take her! _They are back! _She's sweet, isn't she? So nice to him – despite – despite – despite...

They are back.

_They _are back.

They are _back. _

_They are back! _

_**They are back! **_

THeY ArE baCk!

thEy aRe BAcK!

Yorda was screaming his name now. _Funny_. Ico thought before he hit the ground with a loud thud.

_She knows my name._

He did not dream.

Later, Ico would realize that such was another blessing of the Colossi. His last dream was among one of the many things he already wished to forget, or to simply ignore, for he refused, absolutely refused, to look at Yorda in any negative light whatsoever. Not she, who was kind to him. He should also be grateful because it would likely be the last time he would ever have a sleep that was not plagued by nightmares of some kind. Be it of Shadows that crawl and slink and steal and hit and claw and shriek, or be it of other humans, who are not that different from the monsters in the end. It was too much, and he could not think of it, he could not. So he did not, and all was well.

The first thing Ico remembered upon waking up was the feeling of warmth beneath his head. Next were the sensations of the forest, the pressure of the rich earth beneath his back, the swaying grass that tickled his bare arms and hands, the salty kiss of the wind as it peppered his cheeks with a sharp wetness. He felt a tingling sensation in his hair too, one that shifted between being pleasant and painful at equal turns. Sounds, soft, quiet, barely audible at all, played and teased at the corner of his mind, first there was the sighing of the wind, then murmured words, then a owl hooting, then that of leaves falling, then crickets chirping, a few hiccups here and there, and then there was a splash as another splotch of wetness struck his nose, and then a feathery sensation as something dripp- wait.

Slowly, painfully, Ico opened his eyes. Blink. He looked. Blink. He looked again. It still didn't make sense. His head...his _head_ was on Yorda's_ lap._ The girl was now sitting cross-legged with the hem of her gown sprayed out on all sides of her. Her hands, so pale yet nearly pulsating in the darkness, were tangled in his hair and she was combing through them at a rhythmic pace that was offset by her quiet sobbing. For as he looked up, Ico could clearly see the many trails of tears as they made their way down her checks, nose and chin, to finally drop onto him. For a moment, he was simply too stunned to move, to speak, to _think_. Yorda's eyes were shut firmly closed, yet her shoulders were shaking. Moonlight shinned up above, framing her figure, highlighting her jaw and her gray locks that fell limply to either side of her head. For a a moment, a brief, insane moment, Ico thought she faded out of sight, flickered and molded and shifted into the moonlight and starlight and darkness of the night. The wind seemed more substantial, at that bright, intimate moment, and Ico thought her hands would suddenly fall through him, as if they were not truly there at all.

Just like the birds, the night sky was stretched out overhead, but Yorda's only concern was him.

A tension that Ico had not even realized was there oozed out of him and he smiled. _She was truly beau-_

Yorda's eyes snapped open, her hands tightened, and Ico's head was suddenly on fire.

"Ico!" She gasped out in surprise and relief. But when his only response was to grunt out in pain, understanding flashed in her gray eyes as she let go of his tangled tresses and scurried back, seemingly heedless of the grass stains that were marring her elegant gown. She was out of sight. Ico was left to stare up at the night sky – how long had it been anyway? With a groan, the horned boy rolled over on his stomach and pushed himself up.

Yorda sat across from him, back against a tree, arms wrapped around her breast and her eyes still glistening from tears both shed and still pent in. But at least she wasn't shaking anymore and beneath the trail of tears was a elated smile. But, nevertheless, Ico found a deep frown on his face and pain flooding through him everywhere. _I have hurt her_. Came the thought, and it was true and he hated it and it was true. _She was worried. She should never have saw that. I should have been stronger! _

Yorda's stopped hugging herself and instead pressed her hands against the ground beneath her, in order to press herself away from the tree and to peer more closely at him, even though, up above, the stars twinkled in their place. But Ico couldn't take comfort in her acknowledgment, not now, when he knew it was only because he had frightened her so. He could see it in her eyes, and hear it in her voice when she piped up, softly, as if the wind might snatch the words away, "Elinm vist tuea?"

Ico pulled himself up to his knees and then looked at her again. It was a question, he could hear it. She was expecting...he bite his lips, and then licked them. She wanted to know if everything was alright, and he had to convince her, he had to make her trust him again. He couldn't show this pathetic weakness ever again to her. She relied on him, he knew that. She knew it. So, he nodded his head and said, "Yeah. I'm fine." And he then rose to his feet, as if to prove it. And he was impressed by how steady he was. Briefly, as if to make up for Yorda's lack of attention, he glanced up at the sky. A couple of hours had passed. It would be best to try to find some place for the two of them to settle in for the night. But, before that, he had to find food and water. The last tree with fruit he had recognized had been a good mile behind them, and the meal had long been gone. With the beginnings of a plan in mind, Ico glanced back at Yorda, already expecting her to be easing herself up off the ground with her usual grace, perhaps brushing off some dirt and grass from her dress. He had seen it so many times, that the image was already engraved into his mind. Yorda would stand up, glide over to where he stood and wait for him to grab her-

Ico's eyes widened as he watched Yorda rush at him.

The next instant, a pair of thin white hands were at the collar at his tunic and Ico suddenly felt his back be slammed into a nearby tree trunk. There had not been a lot of force applied, even the weakest of Shadows had packed more of a punch, but he had simply been unable to react, unable to respond, unable to comprehend. Even now, as his back was pressed against the tree and Yorda was standing right in front of him, for once using her taller height and glaring down at him, tears once again freely coursing down her face, even then Ico could not truly grasp the fact that she was screaming at him, the soft, poetic, nearly musical timbre of her voice now shaped into a bludgeon to strike out at him, "Dolithe con vinti!"

And then he was lost under her storm of nonsensical words.

"Tuea vist ithe elinm! Tuea milith! Tuea wonlth! Tueava guon, guon, _guon_!" She said the last word with a snarl, and one of her hands slipped to his shoulder and was squeezing. But Ico couldn't move. He stared, captivated as his – his, as she ranted on, "Ulin con! Melin ulin co! Er conth rolinath! Conthia est collin murel! El mion Lanlait!" Her face caved in at that, and then, just like that, Yorda collapsed into him, clutching at his tunic and sobbing into it uncontrollably, as if her world had been stripped away from her. And, just like that, the bubbling, queasy, conflicting emotions, those he had just barely felt beneath the immense shock, was swept away. For it was then that he realized, that none of it had to do with him. And, even more importantly, was the fact that she needed him again. So he wrapped his arms around her and held on tight, trying to keep his own tears, his own pain from seeing her like this, deep inside of him. Why did they make it through such a hell if only to come out broken like this? He couldn't let her be in pain. Before he knew it, Ico was rocking the larger girl in his arms, murmuring the soft sounds of a lullaby he had once heard a Advocate hum to one of the newborns in his village. Yorda relaxed slightly after that, but the sobs continued, and with it the words, "Lanlait ulinha! Lanlait ulinha!"

Lanlait. Ico's blood ran cold. The emphasis, the emotion, the pain – Lanlait was important.

Then he understood, Lanlait was a _name_. Could it be-

Suddenly, the memories came up out of nowhere and slammed into him. Now he was crying too.

…_......................................................................................................................................................................_

Translation:

1. Deston tuea zon!: You are healed!

2. Elinm vist tuea?: Are you alright?

3. Dolithe con vinti!: Don't lie to me!

4. Tuea vist ithe elinm! Tuea milith! Tuea wonlth! Tueava guon, guon, _guon_!: You are not alright! You're exhausted! You're hurt! You've been fighting, fighting, _fighting!_

5. Ulin con! Melin ulin co! Er conth rolinath! Conthia est collin murel! Vinti mion Lanlait! Lanlait ulinha! Lanlait ulinha! : For me! All for me! But I'm useless! I couldn't even fulfill my purpose! To help Mother! Mother's gone! Mother's gone!

Here's a couple last minute notes...an excuse, if you will. First off, and I know this is a nitpicky thing, but I realize in the game Yorda's language doesn't actually have a alphabet. Rather they appeared onscreen like runes, sort of like the hieroglyphics of Ancient Egypt. However, since I am unable to reproduce such a thing in this fanfiction I decided a scrambling of words would be a better way to depict her language.

Ico has always held a very warm place in my heart. The story behind it, the characters, the setting, the simple feel and mood of the game has always inspired my interest. To be honest, this work was long in coming. However, there's still so much more that could be done. But, for the moment, I will leave this work as a oneshot, though I am in the process of writing other chapters. Maybe if there's enough interest I'll post them up. But I'm mainly writing this for my own enjoyment, because I've always longed to know about what happened after Ico, just how the two characters grew and adapted afterwards. In some ways, I think my story is mainly a character study, exploring the backgrounds and complexities of two very unique individuals.

Because of that, before I conclude, I would like to ask a couple of questions. Firstly, about I am very curious about my portrayal of Yorda. I tried to stick pretty well to the image of her that is shown in the game, that of a ethereal, almost otherworldly adolescent. Yet at the same time I tried to give her a bit of depth with her breakdown at the end. What I want to know is if I managed to capture Yorda in her humanity and complexity or if I simply wrote her out of character. Secondly, I want to ask about the language itself. I was hoping to convey that it was an actual language with its own vocabulary and grammar, and did so my repeating certain words like con for me and tuea for you, but I'm curious about whether or not anyone managed to catch onto the pattern in her speech prior to reading the translation at the end or not.

Anyway, I hoped you all enjoyed it! As always, a kind comment and constructive criticism is always appreciated!


	2. Misunderstandings

Distant Hills

_A lonely breeze whispers in the trees_

_Sole witness to history_

Every night for the last six years Ico had slept in the same place. At the very edge of the village – as far away from everyone else as possible – was a small shack that had been erected for him. At the time, Ico had been ecstatic, for now he finally had a roof over his head and a place to call home. That had been a privilege the young horned boy had not had for a long while, not since he had been sent out of the Shulian.

The Shulian was an enclosure in the heart of Morisiwa where the Avion Advocates dwelt. It was at the Shulian that all the newborn babies – even the cursed ones – were brought. Here the children stayed until five summers had passed. Only then were they considered valuable to the community, and assigned a family. Adults would come, those with the highest stature among the villagers first and the poorest last, yet all garbed in tunics and shawls and robes of many splendid hues and shades. Ico could still remember the steadily growing pain and shame as child after child was taken and the Shulian all but emptied out. That is, emptied out of all save one; after all, who would want a ill omen? Eventually the Advocates had no choice but to push him out – the Shulian was for the young – he had not belonged there anymore.

Ico had not belonged anywhere.

So, then, another shame was placed on him. He had always been a horned child, but on his fifth birthday Ico also became a Unwanted. For a whole year the horned boy lived on the outskirts of the vilalge and slept huddled in his ragged, woolen clothes on the side of the road with the other Unwanted – be they blind, sick, infirm, elderly or had merely lost their wits. But unlike them, Ico had was alone. For not even other Unwanted dare to be near him.

But on his sixth summer, it had all changed again. He had been standing in front of a stall, begging for some fruit and bread, when one of the Eyes' men had suddenly approached him. The boy had been so startled it did not occur to him that maybe he should run away. At that age, the flight reaction was how he responded to every challenge – every hardship. It would have still been that way, had he not been taken to the castle.

The warrior did not speak a word to Ico. Instead he merely guided him to the farthest reaches of Morisiwa, right next to their hunting grounds, the Kuromori Forest, named after the Lizard god. There, wedged in between two thin, gnarly trees was a short, squat hut. "This is your new home", was all that the warrior said, before abruptly turning around and vanishing out of sight. If they had ever met after that, Ico did not know, for all of the Eyes' men looked identical with their metal suits and visors.

Ico had not wasted a second, but immediately had gone exploring, searching the forest for nearby streams and good spots to forage and looked for animals and followed their tracks. In the first weeks, Ico had been dedicated to this task. The task of learning, exploring and memorizing the hunting grounds, all in the hope that now with a home all he would need was a trade and he'll be accepted. And tracking and hunting was always the preferable trade for those who lingered in Kuromori's shadow.

It had not taken long for the loneliness to settle in, thick and heavy and potent, and it grew, day by day, moment by moment, and it took a long time, a very long time indeed, to realize that this new home was no favor, and it showed no new tenderness for the most Unwanted of the Unwanted. This was their way of keeping him even out of the streets. For whenever he wandered into town, felled hunts slung over scrawny shoulders, he was only met with silence and stares. No feat was good enough, no action large enough, no words wise enough, no kindness genuine enough, for Ico to ever have a place among them. He was ten, when he knew this. The same age of the other children, those half hazy faces that he barely remembered from the Shulian, that were so giddily splashing through the rivers, playing games with tough leather balls that were thrown and tossed and kicked, roughhousing and playing and shouting and laughing, as carefree and untamed as the windswept plains. He sat in the shadow of the Kuromori Forest, among thorny bushes while they played out in the dawn's early light among grassy hillocks, and that was the way things were meant to be.

Nights had always been the most hated time of the day for Ico, even back when he was still in the Shulian, for he had been confined to his own room, separate from the other children. A part of him, naively, had hoped that things would change upon the Day of Recognition, but he had been just as miserable at night on the streets. But it was by far the worse when he had his own hearth to warm him and his own roof to shield him from the weather's angry bouts. During the day, he could pretend, somewhat, that he belonged, for the children, though hesitant, were kind enough and so were the adults. Theirs were a quiet hate, and one that was not fully shared among all of the villagers. They would rather ignore then lash out, stare then sneer, walk by in a brisk pace then stop and harass him, so it had been always easier, in the daylight hours, to walk amongst the crowd, selling furs and meats and hides, and pretend that he actually belonged and that he was merely a part of the busy stream and hustle that always encompassed Morisiwa. But when night fell and the stars awoke up on their zenith, the time for make believe would be over, and then he had to trudge back to the hut. He, in the forest, they, on the shoreline. He, here, they there. The line was never clearer then at night, and his world never quite so dark.

That night was the first night Ico woke up and found that he was not alone.

They had both collapsed and fell asleep right there, with Ico's back pressed against the tree's rough, sappy bark and with Yorda nestled against him, her soaked, tear-stained face still buried in the nook of his neck. Even as his eyes opened and soft rays of sunlight shone down and shattered the rest of his sleep, Ico still could not move, nor did he want to. For the most part, it was because he was still exhausted, even after a full night's rest. Both the Ordeal and the struggle after it had been taxing on him. He had pushed them both endlessly, harshly even, for he knew the moment that he stopped that he would _stop_. Of course something was going to break eventually, Ico saw that now. But at the time he had only been concerned with moving and moving and moving, even after they finally managed to escape, he, from his tomb, and she from her prison, still he had pushed them on, as if the Shadows still pursued them and time itself was set against them.

Ico leaned his head back, pressing it against the grainy bark, and let his senses slowly awaken, bit by bit. It was only then that he suddenly comprehended just what was happening, just what he was doing. In a wave, he suddenly felt the pressure of Yorda's body against his, felt the warmth of her, felt the way her hair tickled against his neck and heard her quiet breathing, blowing in against his ear and out back again. It jarred. It snared and snapped against his reality. He was hugging her. _She _was hugging _him._ They were embracing, firm and steady and without fear or shame, as if they had been doing it their entire lives. His body suddenly burned, his skin melted and the light on his face now became a molten flame. They were _close_. He knew. They were far, far, far too close! He shouldn't be this close to anyone. He isn't suppose to! He isn't allowed to! It's wrong!

Ico stopped thinking. Ico stopped feeling. His entire world came to a halt as his body reacted on its own violation. He shoved Yorda to the ground and then scurried back, nearly bolted back, flinging himself away and down into the clearing. He didn't feel even the slightest of pain when his back slammed into the ground, not even when a particularly rough rock was there that stabbed into his shoulder, the horned boy was far too use to pain after yesterday to give that a moment's notice. Instead he merely sat there, his head bent over his knees, and his whole body shaking, shivering, burning, and his mind wheeling. Someone was...someone was...someone was... He couldn't wrap his head around it, so jarring was the experience. It simply could not have happened, not even with Yorda, who made it a habit of doing and being the impossible.

Yet at the thought of his friend, Ico's head snapped up, realizing, with great guilt, what he had just done. Sure enough, a couple feet away from him, Yorda lay on her side, her gown thoroughly dirty by now, her hair in disarray, and staring at him, with one of her checks pressed against the ground, with wide, hurt, confused eyes. Slowly, and with that grace that so begets her, she curled herself up and stretched, almost like a white mist that grew from the tangled roots of the weeds beneath her. Her moonshine eyes, milky and opaque, looked at him, and her voice, like a sigh, questioned, "Ico?"

Red rose up to his checks and a bubbling feeling coursed through his stomach before spreading throughout his whole body, drowning out the mess and mix of his other turbulent emotions, pushing them, like normal, to the far reaches of his mind. The only thing he knew, the only thing he cared about, at that moment, at that instant, was the fact that he had hurt her, Yorda, the only one he had, the only one he had ever had. Ico was familiar with the sense of shame, the queasiness of guilt, it was a old partner and it came to him then. He glanced down to the forest grasses beneath his feet, terrain that was so familiar yet so foreign. He more sensed then felt his arms curl around his body, as his head bumped against his knees. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean..." and then he trailed off. Because there was nothing left to say, there was nothing to say at all.

He didn't dare look up. For he knew that she would be gone. How could she not be, when he had abused her kindness so? She must be like the sprites of the forest, those woodland nymphs that glisten as they glide above swaying waterfalls. She graced him with her presence, and now she would be gone, vanishing against the wind, dispersing into the morn as the dew glistened. The loneliness would be back, that terrible pain, and Ico felt the shadows around him thicken, and his hope, his light, die without a whimper. Pain. Pain. Oh how he wished he was back in the Castle in the Mist now, for there the pain, their pain, their trials, had at least made sense.

He did not hear her approach, but then again Ico never did. There were times when he thought Yorda glided through her world rather then walked like normal mortals, and this was one of those times. For, one moment, he had been basking in his new found pain, knowing he had hurt her, and not daring to see how she had reacted, and then the next, the veil was parted and the ghostly figure of a familiar pale palm was now outstretched before him. Ico glanced up.

There she was, standing before him with a breeze ruffling the hem of her dirt smeared and grass stained gown. Yet she stood poised and regal, hand held out with her fingers pointed towards the sky. And then he knew that no amount of dirt, no amount of trouble, no amount of pain would perturb her, she was serene and elegant, even when entirely out of her element, and she had never before glowed so brightly nor appeared so beautiful. There was a smile on her face, and though it was not the Smile that she always wore when gazing upon birds or the one she had given him yesterday it still spoke volumes to him. Through it, words were uttered, though her lips had not parted. She was not upset with him, or if she had been she had forgiven him. He knew she could not understand, but apparently it did not matter. She was with him still, and his world was lit up once more.

Ico glanced at her hand, as if seeing it for the first time, and marveled at how easily he had grasped it before. To her, perhaps, such a thing was natural, but to him it was not. He knew he had been desperate, fleeing for his life and determined to see that she was set free also, but now, it truly struck him just how familiar he was to that pale hand and those slim fingers. How he could feel them, even now, when they were not touching. How he knew that beneath those fingers lay a steel strength, a iron grip that comes in her distress. How similar. For in her too lay that iron core, she would have been a strong Queen.

Yet still she wanted his hand.

He reached up and grabbed it and Yorda pulled him to his feet.

Before even the thought could form that he should let go, Yorda's grip tightened and he looked into her eyes and he knew that she would not let go and if he did, then she _would_ be upset. It occurred to him suddenly, that Yorda _wanted _to hold his hand. And then things began to feel uncomfortable for him again.

Back in Morisiwa, the Elder Eyes chose those who would be mated through the Ceremony of Ties. And being the eyes of the very gods themselves, they always choose the perfect matches. But, nevertheless, even if a couple was truly fond of each other, it was forbidden to show any form of affection in public, such a thing was simply unseemly among those who have exchanged the rites, and incomprehensible between two who have not. Should Yorda ever hold his hand in a village like Morisiwa it would cause a scandal like none other.

But Yorda was just so – comfortable with it all. She grabbed his hand, slept curled up next to him, as if it was nothing, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do. Could she have done such a thing before? With who? Surely, if she was trapped up in that cage for any length of time she should have felt the same loneliness that he had, known the fear of even being near someone, let alone close enough to touch, to feel. Or did it have something to do with him? Was she simply naturally comfortable around him? If that is the case...the thought alone was terrifying.

It was just one more reminder of the fact that Yorda simply did not belong among humankind. It was not possible for her to conform, and, to be honest, Ico did not want her to. He did not want Yorda to change at all. The only thing he truly wanted out of Yorda was the ability to suddenly overcome that language barrier that stood between them, a constant annoyance, especially when Ico so desperately needed to make sense of the very memories he was trying so hard to keep at bay, and also because of the simple fact that he wanted to know her, to talk to her and have the opportunity to explain all the jumble of things that were ensnared in his mind.

Eventually, Ico hoped, that would happen, all it needed was time.

And time was the one thing that they had in abundance.

Ico was snapped out of his thoughts when Yorda suddenly tugged on his hand. Next thing he knew, she was marching back into the heart of the forest, dragging him by hand along with her. Their roles had switched, he realized with a jolt. Before, he had been the one who lead her by hand – guiding her through the massive lair that entrapped them within. But now she had taken it upon herself to pave the path before them now.

This has to be about that yelling bout of hers yesterday. Never before had he seen Yorda lose her composure, not even when the Shadows came and grabbed her and carried her back to the black holes that they crawled out of; never before had she ever taken a effort to direct them, though it had been her home. But she had just done both in a matter of hours, and Ico had no idea what it meant.

But Ico knew it had to stop. She could not lead the two of them, they would end up lost. Back in the castle, it was fine for them to both stumble about in dark and through trial and error try to find a way out. Neither of them knew the castle well, he being a stranger and she hanging on the top of that tower in the cage for who knows how long. But forests were his element, he knew how to survive and live in them and to make a trail through them. It was the reason why he had been so relieved to see this batch of thicket after the duo had circled around the plateau on the canoe. It had been at that moment that Ico, finally, found himself in familiar territory.

Sighing, because he knew he was about to jump into a rather awkward, one-sided conversation, Ico came to a stop. He got the result he had been expecting almost instantly. Yorda moved to continue walking, but her arm wouldn't come with her and instead extended out sharply. Ico winced the moment Yorda let out a small yelp of pain, and he felt even worse when she reached up to grab her shoulder with her free hand. Ico wished he could have simply told her to stop, but he already knew from experience that it wouldn't work. The best way for them to communicate was through physical actions.

Even now, Ico could tell that she knew his intention. He could see it in her eyes – so sure, stubborn and steely they were. Inwardly, he marveled at this new resolve that seemed to have appeared over night. She was determined. Yorda really wanted to be the strong one this time around. A surreal sensation came over him at that moment when her realized that they were about to fight. Actually fight. They, who've been in harmony and synchronized together since the moment they met – the thought made him feel sick.

So, he started as gently as he could, "Yorda," He began, saying it softly as, absentmindedly, he ran a couple fingers down her wrist, "Do you know where we are going?" He paused then, waiting for her to respond. For a while, she did nothing. Merely stood there silently, as the morning breeze waxed and waned. It did not take Yorda long to lock her gaze with his. Ico, for once, did not flinch away from her milky eyes, but rather honed every once of his being and slung it at her, hoping, pleading, that she might understand.

But Yorda refused to yield, the iron in her growing and stretching and thickening until it was all that Ico could see. A marvelous, startling thing, for he had been all but blind to it but just the other day. How well did he know her, truly, if something this blindingly evident, this potent of a aspect of her, could slip by his notice. He saw its mark, and, instinctively, became a bit afraid of it. For one terrible, gut wrenching moment, _her_ image flickered into being behind Yorda's, and the young horned boy could finally see the family resemblance.

Yet, the entire time his will did not falter. Ico knew that his place was to guide, to lead, to protect, and if he did not have this, he would have nothing. So he grabbed hold of the strength, the one he had found in him that day, and refused to let go, and the battle of wills sped on. Yet, unbeknownst to the boy, as every moment passed as he concentrated, looking deeply into Yorda's eyes, his fingers in her hand had been moving, stroking her pale wrist and the ashy white hairs on it with a steady, coursing rhythm. He didn't even notice it when her hand began to shake and hair and goosebumps on her slender arm began to raise up. All he saw as the moment she turned her head aside, finally breaking away from his gaze.

Interpreting that as a sign of his victory, Ico went ahead and strolled before her, taking the lead. Because of that, he never saw the flushed look on her powder-like face – despite the way the pink so violently stood out. He did notice; however, the way she was glaring down at his hand as if it was some sleeping predator, perhaps like a curled up snake just waiting to strike. But since she made no indication of wanting to let go, Ico thought nothing more of it.

A sense of rightness settled over him, as the familiar sensation of leading Yorda soaked into him. A smile did not take long in coming, especially when that comfortable silence followed. He already knew where he wanted to go. He had spotted several deer tracks that looped towards the east, into the heart of the thicket. It was always a wise idea to look for tracks, for wild animals tend to know exactly where the best places to forage was. If he was lucky, they might stumble on a apple tree, he had found a apple core lying in some shrubbery, though no apple tree had been nearby. But Ico was glad he had found it anyway, when Yorda amused herself by picking out the seeds from the black core and holding them up to her eye and squinting at them.

But Yorda was not doing such things now, Ico realized, as he cast a occasional glance over his shoulder at her. That confused and frightened him greatly. Yorda was one who lived and thrived for the present, Ico knew, while he was the one who was absorbed with the past, with thinking and pondering on his old village and, even more so lately, the Castle where everything changed. It was but one more thing that separated the two of them. Yorda was enamored with this new world that she had so longed to see and experience for herself, and because of that every small thing was a wonder for her, even things he had long ago taken for granted – like the sky. He still remembered the first time the two of them had stepped out of the interior of the Castle and into a courtyard. Yorda had literally halted in her place and stared up at the sky with the largest eyes he had ever seen on anyone before, and her face had actually paled, which had not been something he had thought possible.

Yet now Yorda was staring resolutely at the ground. She did not spare any of the many trees around them a second glance or even spare a look at the curious marks on the ground like she normally would. She was lost in her thoughts, Ico abruptly realized. Then too did he know that their "fights" had not been anomalies, and that he was truly seeing a new side to Yorda. That became painfully clear the next moment, when she glanced up from the ground, caught his gaze, and spoke, again.

Even before a single word passed her lips, Ico knew that he was not going to like what he heard. He could see it in her eyes, see it in her face, and hear it in her tone. The tone spoke of regret, but of what he had no idea, and her face was a mar of frustration and eluded wants, but it was her eyes, it was always her eyes, that struck him the hardest. He saw anger and concern and sadness and hope and loathing and fondness – a great deal of fondness, a tenderness that took his breath away and made his head spin, but it was buried underneath all the others, nearly choked and throttled by fear. It was enough to unhinge him, enough to make him pull his hand out of hers and jump away to put some distance between them if Yorda's grip hadn't become as rigid as steel and just as unyielding.

"Tuea dol gulen melinos?"

Ico had heard many accusations before, many of which went along the lines of, "Why did you curse us with such a bad harvest?" or "It was you who stole my wares, wasn't it?". He was always the first one to blame and the last to be defended. And again he heard a accusation, and it came from the last place he expected. It was too much. The words, her tone, her voice, her emotions, everything, she hated him. He knew it know. But why? What did he do? He felt his body shake and his eyes sting as he desperately tried to push back the tide of pain, hurt and betrayal. But it was no use. She was like them after all. She was like them. By the Colossi! What a fool he had been. He felt like digging a hole and burying himself in it. To think he had actually thought he had a friend, someone who understood what he had been through, had felt what he had felt, who had actually wanted to be with him. It was a mad dream, a fantasy, a fairy tale! He should have known that -

The next thing he knew was that Yorda was no longer holding his hand, and instead he felt her hands clasp onto his shoulders. Then she was right there, her face mere inches away from his. Her eyes had become wide with panic and urgency, and when she spoke again the words were rushed and hurried and laced with desperation, "Ithe!". The word became immediately cleared, as if knowledge had descended down from above – _no_. That's what it meant, no. And, just like that, he understood. There had been a misunderstanding, but in her rush she hadn't seen the relieved look on his face, but continued on, words slurring so much he could barely make them out.

"Co troithe yors un roli! Un wanithe tuea meanda, unwan conle! Conth su rolinath vinti mion tuea."

It was then that her hands slipped away from his shoulders and fell to her sides. Exhaustion set in and all the assortment and mix of emotions subsided and faded and simple dejection settled in. He was suddenly struck with that first image of her, curled up with her head in her arms and her knees pressed against her chest, as she sat up in her cage, utterly miserable. Yorda looked like that now. And he had no idea why, but he was only horrified by the thought that it had something to do with him. At that moment, he saw none of the iron, and he wished for it to come back, for this Yorda was one that was about to fall to pieces, and he knew he couldn't put her back together again. But he had to do something, especially after she seemed to descend into herself with her last words, whispered and murmured and swallowed by the morning wind's caress.

"Sons borisa."

He was not use to physical contact, but he was use to protecting Yorda, so he hugged her.

It was instinctual, in many ways, and he wouldn't have done it if he had been thinking clearly. But then again, everything he did back in the Castle he wouldn't have done if he had been thinking clearly, if he had actually stopped and realized just how crazy it all was. Sliding on narrow ledges, jumping over long gaps, leaping onto a windmill's shutters, all of it, utterly insane in retrospect, but necessary at the time. The hug was necessary, Yorda was in pain, he knew it, he sensed it, and so he responded.

She tensed for a moment, and that was nearly enough for him to let go and step back, but then her arms wrapped around him and she was squeezing, squeezing so tightly that his lungs burned. Once again she nestled her head in the crook of his neck, despite the fact that she was considerably taller then him. She was clinging onto him again, and he wondered how he could ever think she was simple, if such intense emotions were so constantly plaguing her.

But then it was over and she stepped back, her eyes clear and light again. The Smile was on her face again, and Ico had to stop himself from reaching out to his head for the sudden fear that his horns had completely grown back overtook him then. But then that thought was over when she reached out and grabbed his hand again, and things were backed to normal. She opened up her mouth again, and he felt more then heard the gratefulness in her tone, "Lelontue." _Thanks, Thank you, I appreciate it_, It could be any of them, or all, and Ico did not care. For he felt it all the same.

So he smiled and nodded and the welcome silence was back.

….................................................................................................................................................................

Translation:

Tuea dol gulen melinos?: Why do you always do all the work?

Ithe!: No!

Co troithe yors un roli! Un wanithe tuea meanda, unwan conle! Conth su rolinath vinti mion tuea: I didn't mean it like that! It is not your fault, it's mine! I'm too useless to help you.

Sons borisa.: With anything.

Lelontue: Thank You

Well, folks, this is a first for me.

In the previous chapter, I mentioned that I would be keeping this as a oneshot, and that's what I fully intended, but then I went out to a local frozen yogurt place, with the intention of doing some homework and I just couldn't stop writing this. A full story has simply evolved in my mind, and that's very strange, because normally I'm a very slow writer. My original story, Land of Legends, hasn't been updated in months. Maybe this story is a bit unique for me?

Also, I want to say, that I am very sorry for the sappiness. It's quite startling, really, as I read through it, I never thought I would ever write something that was so sugary sweet. It's a good thing that it's not a romance...yet. That and I'm afraid that I'm making our stars OOC. The main intention behind this story will be to plot out the changes and development in Ico's and Yorda's friendship as time progresses. Also, don't think its always going to be hugs and crying and emotional outbursts, the idea behind these first scenes is the reality that the both of them have just underwent a very traumatizing experience and that their emotions are a bit on the fritz. Things will definitely mellow down once they get some sort of normality or routine in place, so expect the next chapter will be a bit more grounded.

Later!


	3. Smile

Distant Hills

_Fleeting memories rise_

_From the shadows of my mind_

There was something odd going on, Ico realized.

He had not truly thought about it before, but in all rightfulness, last night should have been terrible for Yorda. For while he was quite use to sleeping outdoors, with nothing to protect him against the night's chilling touch, the same could not be said for Yorda. Yet as he watched her from the corner of his eye, as they moved steadily after the deer tracks, he could not find a hint of discomfort on her face. Despite the twigs and rocks and roots and leaves that lay strewn about in their path, and despite the lumpy ground they had both slept on the day before, she seemed no worse for wear.

Was that a distinctly supernatural thing, or was Yorda merely too distracted to feel uncomfortable about where they were and what they were doing? Either way, Ico was sure to be careful with where they stepped, weaving past the large rocks and low hanging branches and thorny bushes. But other then that, he was content. Yorda had gone back to staring at other things again, at the moment she was particularly interested in the layers of leaves beneath their feet, or, more exactly, the noises they make when she steps on them. At this point she was deliberately choosing which ones to step on, each one a different color, one red, one brown, one yellow, and a couple greens. She was trying to see if the colors make a difference to what the crumbling sounds like. That made him smile before turning his gaze back towards the ground.

He blinked. The tracks were gone.

Pushing down the panic like he pushed down all the other feelings, Ico jolted his head up and glanced around, only to feel relief. It didn't matter that he had last the deer tracks, for he found what he had been looking for. There in the nearby distance was a fruit tree of some sort, and, more importantly, a batch of bushes, all of which had clusters of bright berries on them. "There it is!" He cried out happily, startling Yorda into glancing up away from the leaves. She let out a gasp as he suddenly started to run, pulling her along with him like normal. The trees on either side blurred and molded and faded away as they went on, and Ico's mood was growing even better. It was the apple tree! For once things had finally gone right for them!

They stopped right before the tree and bushes, and it was then that Ico had let go of Yorda's hand. In a smooth, practiced motion that only comes through a repeated action done again and again and again, Ico twisted his Lorendo Shawl around to his shoulders and then pulled it off. He could feel Yorda's curious eyes burning onto his back, but he didn't let it disturb him. It was better this time at least, she was merely curious, not surprised, and the curiosity was a tame thing, compared to how she had acted the day before. Because yesterday, when they had stopped by the first bush they found with berries to get a meal, Ico had done the exact same thing, and she had let out a shocked yelp and nearly stumbled over her own feet. Apparently she had not been aware that he could take his clothes off, which raised up interesting questions about her own gown. He managed to pick off the berries one by one – they were of a type he had seen before, luckily, and soon they had a rather large pile of them. After they ate, he let Yorda amuse herself by poking at the shawl and then feeling it and even putting it on, which was all fine and good. Things had gotten bad the moment she had come over with that innocent curiosity burning in her eyes to try to pull his shirt off also. He managed to stop her and convey the sense that sense that she was not suppose to rid him of his clothing under any circumstances. And then she hadn't tried again.

But that hadn't stopped her minutes later, as they were pushing through the forest, from trying to pull off her _own _clothes.

So, needless to say, Ico was a bit wary this time around, but Yorda did nothing but look as he took off his and then folded it and formed it into a small bowl. He then crouched down and peered at the berries closely, and then a huge grin burst on his face: _blueberries_. Actual blueberries! Apples and blueberries. He felt like laughing, he felt so giddy, and he might have if his stomach had not hurt so much and his throat had not felt like it was bleeding and scrapped and raw. So instead he just began to pick them with his thin, boney fingers, taking one off, putting one in, and setting a rhythm to it, a pattern, so he does not think about the feel, texture and taste of the small berry that was pressed between his two digits, because if he thought about that, paused even once to consider it, then he would go mad and rip away as many branches as he could and grab whole handfuls of berries and shove them in his mouth and crush them and feel the juice run down his chin and fingers and try to lick them off and he would be too selfish to share with Yorda and he couldn't do that and -

He felt a shudder and had to shove the thoughts aside to go on.

He stopped for a moment to glance up at the tree that hung over his head. He tried to do a rough count as his hands continued to work, pulling, picking and dropping. If he had to guess, Ico would say that there were a couple dozen up there. By the Colossi! If he stripped the bushes of all the berries and the tree of its apples forget about a morning meal, there would be enough to last them for the rest of a few days! Especially if they were carefully rigorous with the rationing. It would take a couple hours worth of work, and after that he should find a nearby stream and maybe build-

Ico was thrown out of his thoughts again when a weight settled by his side. He whipped his head around and felt his eyebrows raise, eyes widen and jaw drop. Yorda had come and was now crouched by his side, with a single berry in her fingers that she let drop in Ico's before flicking her hand back into the bush to pluck off another one. His hands stopped moving. She was helping him. "Yorda." He felt the word slip by his lips before he could stop them, and he saw her react, when her hand froze, her index finger still brushing one of the small purple spheres, but then she was moving again. That was the third berry now. Slowly, with far more hesitance then before, Ico also started working again to.

It was then that he heard Yorda sigh, and saw some unnoticed tension leave her body suddenly. She now worked with a new-found competency, without the awkward restraint that held her before. She was comfortable now, at ease, but Ico was left wondering as he worked. Just why had she been so nervous? Had she suspected that he would refuse her help? Never. He had just been curious, is all, and quite a bit thrown off-guard. It's not that he had never seen her do any physical labor before, quite a few of the jumps she had done had been incredibly impressive, even by his standards, but he had never expected her to take such a initiative. But he would never begrudge her of it, he would never begrudge her of anything if he could help it.

The rhythm came back again, and the young boy with the growing horns found a relative peace. It was rather nice to have Yorda there besides him, lending a helping hand, and it truly made the work go by more quickly. Already the Lorendo shawl was beginning to sag underneath the weight, and they had not even gotten to the apples yet. Speaking of which, maybe Yorda would help him with the apples also – he only hoped she didn't get it in her head to attempt to climb up the tree also. That would be far too dangerous, and besides no one ever managed to get it right on their first -

"Ico" Was all she said, and he stopped immediately and turned around to look at her.

It turned out that Yorda had stopped working also, and was glancing at him and fiddling with her juice smeared fingers while biting her bottom lip. It was obvious that Yorda was fighting with herself over something, and with another wayward glance in his direction it became clear. She wanted to talk to him, maybe ask him something, and was wracking her mind in order to do it in a way that Ico would understand. He himself had been in similar situations before with her – it was the reason why that conversing with actions were simpler – words made everything more complicated.

Yorda knew this. So this must be something that she wants to know badly.

Ico tensed when she raised her hand, but he relaxed when he realized that she wasn't going to touch him but merely point – at his right horn stump with its sharp point poking through. Already he felt a looming unease, for nothing good could come from a question about his horns. Ico eyed her as she asked a single word; paradoxically, with both hesitance and certainty. "Sando?" Her pale finger was gesturing at his horn, but then it was gone, tucked back into her lap.

Ico simply looked at her – nonplussed. He did not need to say, "I do not understand."

Now she was biting her lip again, and Ico noted that her teeth were as pearly white as her face. He had note even been aware that someone her age could have white teeth still. Yorda spoke up again, trying to explain with more of her gibberish words. "Ithe gorson. Ithe harikin. Sando vinti tuea." And while Ico still did not understand what she was trying to say, he did have a new insight. He understood the contradiction in her tone before. She was sure that what she was saying was true, yet, at the same time, did not understand how they could be. She felt sure that it was true for him, but her own words sounded like nonsense to her. For once, her speech made as little sense to her as it did to him.

Ico glanced away from her then, licking his lips and debating, desperately, in his head whether, for the very first time, he should lie to her. If he told her that his horns were unimportant, then maybe she would be put at ease and, more importantly, she would not view him any differently, not treat him any differently. But if he told her the truth, then maybe, maybe...he didn't want to think of it. In the end, though, he made his decision, it was not a hard one to make after all.

Nevertheless, he could not look at her as he spoke, but his tone said all there needed to be said. He could literally feel her gaze, stark and knowing, as his somberness plagued the tranquility of the forest clearing, "Horns," He paused, for in his mind an extra word was added, and it echoed deeply down to his soul with derision forefront, _**my**__ horns ... __**my**__ horns ... __**my**__ horns_, he pressed on, a dark haze clouding his vision, "are an ill omen."

"Horns are an ill omen." She parroted and Ico nearly wanted to cry, because her pronunciation was spotless.

But then she whispered, "Sando." And he could feel it, hear it, sense it, and it tore him a shred. Pity.

Abruptly, Ico got to his feet and looked over at her, a large smile on his face and his long standing pain buried deep within, so that all that stood on his face was a mask, a facade, a ruse, one that Yorda clearly was not buying, if that pout and scrunched up brows had anything to say about it. But Ico felt it was more then time to put this topic behind them. "Time for the apples!" He said happily, ignoring the fact that half of the berries were still unpicked. He put down the makeshift bowl on the ground and helped Yorda to her feet, before gently placing his Lorendo shawl with its batch of berries in her hands, "Stay." He said simply, and a flash of recognition shot through her eyes. He had said the word enough times during their exploration of the Castle for her to know what he meant. Being as gentle as possible, Ico positioned her right beneath the tree and then, with a natural unnatural litheness, he bounded up the tree as if he had a tail rather then horns. Below him he could hear Yorda's surprised shout of, "Ico!". Apparently, she hadn't been expecting him to do that. What was also curious was the fact there was quite a bit of frustration laced into that word as well. She must have figured out that this was his way of forcibly ending the "conversation". And this made him more then a little guilty, but he shoved the thought aside for now.

With his sandals on two sturdy branches and his left hand gripping a thick vine, Ico sent his free hand for the first apple. A single twist freed it from it's stem. He then craned his neck around to look down at Yorda. He extended his hand out into the air with the apple dangling from his fingers. He caught Yorda's eyes, and then a flash went through them, and she suddenly understood. She held up the makeshift basket in the air, and Ico dropped the apple. It hit the folded cloth and then bounced again and would have fallen out if Yorda hadn't tilted his shawl up so that it stayed it. Ico beamed and then called out, "Good job!" Yorda glanced up at him and smiled, but then another emotion surfaced to her eyes and she frowned, turned her head to the ground and murmured words he could not hear. He frowned too, and was tempted to ask what was wrong when the branch beneath his right foot began to groan. He snapped his gaze back towards the next apple. He had to move quickly, staying still too long would prove hazardous.

So, he began to tear off the apples, one by one and drop them. Soon enough, they were picking up the pace, creating a rhythm much like the one he made when he was plucking off the berries. Yet, each time he shifted, each time he moved, he could feel Yorda's gaze on his back, and the intensity of that gaze grew deeper with every passing moment, but she had not spoken up yet, so he simply ignored it. As he moved to the side of the tree, Yorda followed beneath, circling around it's trunk. He was reaching up for another apple when he heard some shuffling down below and then a sudden shout of, "Ico!" There was such a degree of panic in her tone that for one insane moment Ico was sure that the Shadows were back and were dragging her away from him. He whirled his head around so quickly that his neck hurt and had been mere moments away from jumping leaping off, when he realized there was no danger. So instead he stilled and asked, "What is it?"

By now he saw that the intense quality in her eyes had grown to a maelstrom.

Her hands were quivering as she held them up to her lips. "Rolif duns erth iln!"

But Ico was just confused, "What?"

He pointed her finger at him and then slashed it down to the ground beneath her, "Duns!"

Then he understood, yet at the same time he didn't. Ico glanced down at the ground, then at Yorda, and then back up level, with a frown still etched on his face. This height was nothing. He had been far higher up then this before, they both have. The tree itself wouldn't have come even a quarter of a way up one of the island cliffs that the Castle was built on. Why on earth was she worried? "Are you sure?" She nodded her head.

So he stepped off the branches, let go of the vine, and just dropped.

The world spun as several things bloomed into life all at once. He fell, his body suspended in air for the briefest of moments, the ground speeding beneath him. The wind whistling past, as the leaves from the tree above fluttered around him as he fell. He heard the sounds of the forest, calm and alluring, be suddenly and radically overthrown as Yorda, staring at him with pale face, wide eyes and parted lips, let out a high-pitched scream. He didn't even have enough time to comprehend it, he only knew, the moment he struck the ground, that something was terribly wrong with Yorda. For there should be no reason such a sound should come from her, it was so startling, so unnerving, so _unnatural_ for such a scream, a shriek that would have put a child's to shame, to come from such a soft-spoken, carefree, and untamed creature. The ground had rushed up, and his feet struck the ground. If he had been in his right mind, had not been so terribly thrown off, that would have been that. But instead, his knees caved beneath him and the ground became very close indeed.

The next thing he knew, he was being brought up to his feet and held tightly as Yorda stood before him, shaking hands quivering in their place on his shoulders. Slowly she began to crouch down. Her face was screwed up with worry, frown lines marring her face as her hands suddenly shot out. He was confused and more then a bit flustered as she began to pat down ankles and calves. But then it became clear when she stood up and began to circle him, eyes scanning over his body furiously. She was trying to see if he was hurt. Worried that he was in pain after his far from the tree. He was surprised and confused mostly, but it was also sort of nice. He had never had anyone...anyone...actually he didn't know what she was doing was called, this frantic, panicked worry.

He had seen it before though. That fire in her eyes, her motions, her murmurs. Where had he –

And then a memory surfaced, bubbling up like flotsam off the bottom of a lakefront. Ico could remember sitting crouched behind a barrel full of the morning catch, and peering over the side towards a mother and her son. The little boy had just scrapped his knee, and the woman was fretting over him, running her hands over his leg, demanding in her furious tone what he had done and who had done it and promising retribution when they got home, and then switching back again and near sobbing and asking, asking, asking, if he was hurt, oh, how could he get hurt? All the while, Ico had stayed there, crouched in the receding shadow, and simply watched. He couldn't understand, quite what was happening, but he knew his entire body stung and shrieked and knotted up at the sight. He felt pain. Sharp, brutal, relentless pain, and he did not know why. He only knew it grew the moment the mother took the little boy's hand in her grasp and the two of them got up to walk away, passing by his hiding place and leaving him alone in the shadows once more.

Ico looked at the girl before him and he realized it was actually happening to him now. Yorda was _mothering _him.

Never before had Ico been struck by two such opposing, paradoxical emotions of equal force and at the same time. The idea of someone caring over him, watching over him, worrying over him to the extent a mother would to her child was mind-blowing, heartwarming, confusing and terrifying – all at once. Ico couldn't even begin to sort them all out, his feelings were knotted up in each other to the point where the young boy could not tell where one dizzying sensation ended and the other started.

But what he did know, what the boy could sense was that this should be a pleasant moment. After all, in the past whenever the lonely soul had dreamed of being accepted like this – for indeed, it was his dearest, his _only_ wish – he had always imagined that he would be smiling and be basking in a joy that he could barely fathom – after all, mere happiness was a rarity to him. So, he should have been content, at ease, once the shock had finally settled.

But he was not – and in here lies the contradiction.

For while Ico did enjoy the attention, voices – shrill yet soft and all consuming – were shrieking to him that this was not right. That Yorda was the last person ever who should mother him. This sense of – of – _wrongness_ was like a beacon unto the night – a lantern held aloft into the air in the darkest hours. For some reason, even as his head spun, his cheeks burned, and giddiness bloomed into being due to Yorda's actions, the voices – brooding like the murmurs of the Shadows – cooed that Yorda should not do this and he should not let her and Ico did not know why –

_Does Yorda see me as a child?_

The thought came abruptly, and now the whispers and the whiff of agitation became a giant uproar. Not a part, but the entirety of Ico's being objected to that notion – absolutely objected! His world was screaming, and the trees, the grass, the sky, the birds, the wind and the rest of nature slid out of focus as Yorda's profile, as she was holding onto Ico's right wrist with one hand while pulling up his sleeve with the other – became brightly illuminated. His body reared and snapped and suddenly Yorda was stumbling back a couple of steps while Ico put a gap between them; a true gap, a gap in height, a gap in age, a gap in distance and a gap in understanding. For even as he turned around to face the dropped Lorendo Shawl with their morning meal, he could feel Yorda's hurt and bewildered gaze on the back of his head. He stomach heaved and pain spread to every point in his body. The edges of his eyes stung, though he had thought he had dried up all of his tears a long time ago, while his hands hardened into fists – Ico barely felt the pinpricks of his nails biting into the skin of his palms. The villagers were right – they _always_ were – he was a monster.

"I'm fine," Ico said resolutely, knowing that if he did not put his foot down here, he would crumble before her – and he could not let that happen, not again. Pushing all the myriad of feelings that was befuddling his mind far away as was his wont, Ico shot a look over his shoulder; a smile plastered onto his face. "Let us eat. There is much traveling ahead of us." Ico was glad to see that Yorda's serene half-smile and composure was still in tact, and that there was no hint of the pain that was coursing through him within her opaque orbs. However, the elfling did look a bit dubious.

Ico made his way over to the spread out piece of cloth with the bounty of fruit and berries piled on top of it, and moved to sit down. Or at least that was his intention. But rather the moment that Ico decided to ease himself down, all the fibers in his muscles became lax and Ico tumbled to the ground in a fit of legs, arms and sweaty bangs. The young boy heard a couple of hurried steps as Yorda approached, but just as swiftly they ceased and Ico was left to wonder what was restraining her from coming up and fretting over him like before.

But that thought, and all others like it, were lost in a foggy haze as the beast in his belly and the screamer in his throat and the crawling ants in his arms, legs, thighs and back all sapped away his strength and made his world tilt. Before, when he had plucked out the blueberries from the bush and climbed up the tree to gather the apples Ico had been drawing from a well that had seemed near endless, that had fueled him time and time again as he had gone through the Ordeal. But now that only a trickle of that force remained, the boy with stubs on his head acted instinctively, his body jerkily moving about as if being steered by some unseen puppeteer.

He was suddenly biting into the juicy flesh of a glossy apple, and a thick, swirling pleasure swept through him in tidal waves, and all at once the beast stopped howling, the ants ceased crawling and the screamer was silent – at least for a moment. As he chewed and wrapped his tongue around the white mush to wring out every last drop of nutrients, Ico felt his whole body – his whole soul – quake. Pulling the apple away and letting it flop back onto the Shawl, Ico let out a long sigh. He whipped his mouth off with a arm and lied back, his elbows and forearms nestled in the grass.

As the last of the sweet sensation faded, lingering in his gums, tongue and teeth, making his entire mouth vibrate, Ico noticed that Yorda was now sitting across from him, the batch of vegetation on top his Lorendo Shawl separating them. Her head was cocked to the side and she was watching him with the same wide, curious eyes as always; the gaze was fixed on him alone, but occasionally it dropped to the apples beneath her, particularly on his half-eaten one.

Ico frowned. She had done the exact same thing yesterday also – simply sat there, slender legs curled elegantly beneath her, as she watched Ico eat like it was some sort of fascinating spectacle. And, like then, Ico was forced to the uncomfortable conclusion that Yorda has never eaten before, or, at least, had never eaten or seen any fruits or berries. It made sense too. The Shadows were shadows – as incorporeal as a cloud and the Queen...Lanlait?...held more in common with the sable wraiths then she did with any mortal denizen. The Castle was a place of death and the otherworldly – what use would they have for something as mundane as physical nourishment?

"Ico?" Yorda piped up, her head still cocked slightly. The young boy was so startled that he nearly fell over, his arms caving in on him. But he chocked down that reaction and just looked at her. When he did, he could see the subtext underneath her one-word question, like he always could. _Why are you staring at me?_ Ico tore his eyes away from her, already feeling his checks and neck burn and flush. As he did, his eyes landed down on the fruits waiting below, and just like that Ico knew what to do.

His hand snapped out to the nearest apple and his fingers pinched the stem. Leaning forward, across the gap, he held the apple right in front of Yorda's nose, a playful smile etched on his face. "Want one?" Now it was Yorda's turn to be caught off guard. She blinked once and then twice, simply staring at the crimson sphere held before her before shooting a glance up at Ico's face and then back down at the apple again. Slowly, hesitantly, she raised a finger and pointed at the pale flesh right below her neck. Once again, the message was pierced through the barrier of language, _For me? _Ico merely smiled and thrust it forward once more. It was then that Yorda brought her hands before her, cupping them together. Ico let the apple drop. It bounced slightly and then settled, brightly winking at the young maiden from where it rested.

Ico reached for his earlier meal and began to finish it off. But, all the while, he kept a eye on Yorda, to see what she would do. Yorda has always been curious, but rarely had she actually made the initiative to interact with whatever it was that was piquing her interest. So Ico offered the opportunity for her. Sure enough, with far more hesitance then most would consider common, Yorda leaned forward and took a small nip, pearly teeth breaking through the red skin.

Though they had but meet two days ago, Ico considered that he knew Yorda pretty well. The boy with stubs on his brow had witnessed the range and extent of the emotions and expressions that struck the young woman, particularly whenever she was in distress – which was often during their Ordeal. But never, not once, did Ico think that such a – a – a _comical _look would cross Yorda's pallid features.

She appeared so surprised! Yroda had barely even broken through the fruit's outer layer before she pushed her hands one way and jerked her head the other; all the while letting out a breathless gasp. He had never heard her make such a sound like that before. And the way she was looking at the apple! With such wide eyes! He felt his shoulders begin to shake, and despite a mental self-warning, Ico burst out laughing. One more look at Yorda's face – now tightened into a pout of confusion and agitation – and Ico's mirth boiled over, and he was now bent over his knees and his arms were wrapped around his legs, desperately trying to push them into his chest to constrict his heaving sides.

Later on, He would realize that was the first time he had ever truly laughed.

At the moment though, Yorda merely huffed as she took another bite from the apple with all the haughtier of a noblewoman.

It is odd, how often a thought suddenly strikes him when he's observing Yorda. One moment, he is laughing, laughing for the first time, feeling a giddiness in his bowels in his mind, a lightened heart that he never felt before, and then the next it was as if light was irradiating inside his mind, pushing with might against the cobwebs and sending down a revelation that he would have gladly been without. But it came all the same: _This is probably the first time Yorda has ever been laughed at._ His good mood vanished.

Shame, shame, shame, the boy averted his eye, glaring at the grass beneath him. Why does he always do this to himself? Why? His whole body was quivering again, and it was not with with pleasure like it was before. Ico could remember the sting of being laughed at, he could taste it, tough it, like a caressing touch of a sharpened dagger against his throat, trailing down, down, down, until it reached his heart and stabbed and twisted and pulled. It was always the children. His own peers. His occasional playmates, who would jeer at him. The adults were more restrained, they were filled with apathy and disdain and felt it more wisely to keep it under tabs then to lash out at him with it. But children have no such qualms. The last thing he wanted to do was make Yorda feel that sort of pain, biting and gripping, he would rather jump into one of the oozing, black holes that the Shadows crawl out of head first.

So he gave her a brilliant smile, one which, surprisingly, was not only genuine but felt...natural. It was a bit hesitant, etching slowly onto his features before blossoming into existence. And Ico saw Yorda react. Her hands ceased, pausing with the apple midway towards her lips and a blast of color flooded into her checks and her eyes widened so much that the look on her face the moments he bit into the fruit did not even compare. Then, slowly, the...the whateveritwas...faded and a smile crept onto her face too. They broke eye contact. Picked up their apples. And ate.

And Ico felt his smile widen after each consecutive bite.

But he was a stirred out of his good cheer when he noticed that Yorda was no longer eating, but rather hand the apple resting in the palm of her right hand, and was staring at it intensely, especially at the part where she had dug in the deepest and a couple seeds poked their heads out. It was then that he caught her gaze as she stole a glance up at him, but immediately afterward her head bent back down again, obviously rather flustered. Her thin eyebrows were more furrowed then Ico had ever seen them before, and a slender finger was tap, tap, taping on the side of the apple. And, just like that, Ico again understood.

"Go ahead," He finally spoke up, trying to make his voice as coaxing as possible, Yorda's head snapped up, "Ask me whatever you want." For a moment, Ico thought she did not understand. And it would not be too surprising that she would not. After all, what was the likelihood that she would be able to understand the message behind his nonsensical words like he was able to understand the point behind hers? But as he watched, he saw not incomprehension behind her gray-eyed gaze, but rather a keen reluctance. She was biting her lip and her fingers were wrapped painfully around the red orb in a vice-like grip. Ico was so confused. Why was she so hesitant? Did he giver her the impression that he didn't want to talk to her? If so maybe he should -

He didn't get a chance to finish that thought.

Yorda glanced up at him, and, with a blush on her checks, pointed to the apple in her hand, "Era dolina?"

Now it was Ico's turn to furrow his brows. What could she mean? It was a question and she was pointing-

Oh!

Sitting up straighter and looking her in the eye, a eagerness in him in seeming to pierce through the language barrier once more. Ico exclaimed, "Do you want to know it's name?" A smile crept onto his face when he saw her unsure nod, and it grew wider when he saw Yorda nod once more, more assure this time. So, reaching out over the meal between them, Ico poked his finger against Yorda's current object of curiosity. Being sure to keep a steady hold on her gaze, Ico drew out, being very clear with his pronunciation, "Apple."

"Apple?" She parroted. Ico noted that she did not slur the words at all. Feeling a twinge of pride, for some reason, Ico nodded.

Yorda's finger darted to the blueberries on his Lorendo Shawl. "Yui doloni?"

Ico was about to say, _blueberries. _But he stopped himself. Wouldn't it be better to simply call them berries? That way the next time she sees a berry she doesn't incorrectly call it a "blueberry"? But will there be a next time? He pushed that thought aside. And simply said, "It's a berry." And then, realizing she might not know which word he meant, he repeated, "Berry."

Ico's eyebrows soared up to his hairline the moment Yorda jumped to her feet and excitedly pointed to the apple tree, "Yui doloni?"

Ico had to force down his anger when he replied, "Tree." But inwardly he seethed, _She didn't even teach her what a __**tree**_ _is? _

His anger did not have long to stew. For already Yorda was moving, gliding away from the apple tree in silent steps as she craned her neck upwards, staring straight at the wispy clouds above. For a moment, Ico felt sure she would point to one of them – but instead she made a broad gesture, sweeping her arm across the entire expanse of blue. She looked down and caught his gaze. "Sky." Was all he said.

"Sky." She repeated and Ico was struck by a icy blast to his spine, as if he had been thrown back first into Eelinos Lake. But the sensation was swift, there and then gone, and the battered boy was left feeling disoriented by the end of it. It was a frightening, more so then anything else he had ever encountered. Though he did not know why – nay, _because_ he did not know why is what made the sensation so...so...

A pale, ghostly finger was now pointing to the burning orb, hanging high in the air, just beginning it's daily voyage. _Not the tree or the sky or the sun? _The thought came unbidden, but it left him jarred all the same. He found hatred, where there never had been any before. Not even for the villagers, who collectively disowned him. Nor for the Elder Eyes, who, supposedly, watched guardedly over their flock. He did not feel this sort of blinding, consuming choler for the three underlings of the Eyes who had sealed him away, forevermore, into the tomb. But, for her sake, he felt it, and so thick, so heavy, so utterly choking was this hatred that he almost, for one brief, terrible moment was actually...actually glad that –

Yorda's finger began to fall, that happy, enthusiastic energy that had imbued her – the same power which allowed her to dart this way and that, while still appearing to be floating while her feet touched the ground – fell with it. By the time her hand fell to her hip, that giddy glint in her eyes had evaporated, and in its place was a somber, melancholy being; one that Ico was well use to seeing swimming there, behind the surface of things. She peered at him. Slowly, she parted her lips. "I – Ico?" She actually stammered.

Just like that, Ico wanted the energy back, wanted the curiosity and that the the thirst for understanding in place of the – whateverit was – that was overcoming her now. That quality to her, that solemnity and aloofness that made him think that she may be centuries older then she appears, seemed to revolt against everything he was...everything he _wanted_. It was a essence that was primarily foreign – darker then anything he had ever encountered before, and what were the Shadows if not dark?

No. He could not let her revert back to this state.

"Sun." He stated hastily, gesturing up at the ball. She was still frowning and was eying him clear suspicion and concern, but it did not take Yorda long to glance back up, at the same time rising a single hand to shade her eyes. But, underneath that palm Ico watched as that half-smile of hers birthed into being. Ico felt his shoulders relax. (When did they tense up?) and was about to smile to – a encouragement to Yorda to go on – when the nymphet proclaimed merrily to herself, that breathless gasp of wonder vibrating in her tone:

"Sun! Furleta asanta!"

The sudden strike of coldness washed into him again, only this time it was like a club to the head – twice as potent, twice as earthshaking, due to the truth, the undeniable truth, that was coupled with it. A truth that made any thought of smiling, or in forming any pretense of not bubbling over in rage due to the injustice that was done to her, be shattered in a instant.

Yorda's accent was flawless. Spotless. In fact, she pronunciation the words better then _he _did!

That – that!

_A winding staircase. Never before had he ever seen such a structure, there was no use of them in Morisiwa – where a stranger could go from housed to house and have a hospitable conversation with all that dwelt there and be gone before the sun fell and the moon rose thrice. Ah! How the boy would have given anything to have some moonlight then – so dark, so damp, so chilly was this spiraling tower. Yet, somehow, the horned boy could still see and it did not take Ico long to spot the large iron cage, hanging up from the ceiling from wooden buttresses. Though a storm raged and the wind howled, it did not shake or rattle. _

_From the bottom of the cage, a swirling vortex began to form, a dark, inky substance that put the night sky to shame. He knew this to be true. For a sliver of the night could be seen from the square openings that circled around the tower walls, now nothing more then a straggled mass of gray and black. So distorted and separate was it from this lonely place that Ico almost felt that it was not the sky he was peering into, but rather a portal to another realm, where beasts unimaginable trodden. Such a beast now appeared, a cursed monstrosity that rose from the darkness that boiled, bubbled, hissed and oozed. Bit by bit, inch by inch, as the darkness and the storm and the night and the waves which crashed against the rocks far below echoed about the chamber, up came – up came – _

"Ico!" Yorda screamed at him. Sound to silence. Slender hands on calloused shoulders. White face to a deep brown one. Wide, terrified gray eyes to vacant emerald ones. Close by yet far away, Ico's Lorendo Shawl rippled as a apple rolled off it and onto the grass. Ico blinked, resurfacing into the waking world like a drowning man does, with frantic sputtering. He jerked back. Arms thrashing. Heart racing. Head pounding. How did he? What on –

He licked his lips, "What – " He had to swallow; for his words were slow in coming and were caged in his breast. But, still he managed to work out a, "What happened?" He expected Yorda to understand, to read him, to know. She always did, like he – somehow – always did. His head still felt light but at the same time were being beaten like the rite drums. If Yorda was not there to steady him Ico felt sure he would have collapsed. He wondered if that was because iron was back in her or if he was simply weaker then her now.

The distorted thoughts cleared first by Yorda's pointed stare, milky eyes burrowing through him, and next by her words, "Tuea lagoto co." The understanding failed him. He had no idea what she meant, though a couple of the words did seem vaguely familiar. What Ico did think was that, maybe, the words sounded a bit accusatory. So it did not take long for him to glance the other way and to fall back onto his worn out lie.

"I'm fine." He stole a glance. Yorda blinked.

Then she scowled.

She actually _scowled_. His Yorda – scowling!

The urge to laugh again began to trickle through him. It was only by the memory of how Yorda reacted the last time he laughed at her that checked the impulse. But that did not stop his grin, big and large and bright and simply _content_, for the first time ever. The expression flowed – as soft and tranquil and lulling as a steaming stream – over his features, and Ico did not feel it but rather _felt_ it. Just like that time when he saw Yorda's hand curl and those eyes, finally, open once more. Yorda's scowl ceased like it was never there to begin with. It was not that she was immediately smiling too – but rather that she seemed … stunned. She turned her head away, murmuring something incomprehensible under her breath. But before she fully turned Ico caught sight of the blush on her cheeks – it was impossible not to with the way the color clashed with her pallor.

Ico felt the urge to scratch his head in confusion. What did he do? Embarrass her? Frustrate her? How?

But then Yorda turned around to face him again and any hint of the turbulent feelings that were sparing in her a second ago were gone. Instead, the energy was back – but, impossibly, it was far more intense then before. Fire; there was fire, and it burnt the air in this woodland clearing. All sound stopped. Wind – calm. Swaying leaves – stilled. Kumori's kin pausing their endless struggle for survival. Once again, recollections stirred and memories stung as Yorda reached a single hand out to him. But she was not was not reaching for his face or his stubs, rather her hand halted before his mouth, her outstretched index finger centimeters away from his lips. Just a bit closer and –

"Yui doloni?"

Within a castle hidden in the mist, formed on jutted rocks in the middle of the sea, which, but a couple days ago, deteriorated to ash with nary a sound, there were once doorways wit the likeness of horned children engraved on them set in a fetal position with their arms wrapped around their legs. Ico was standing and not made of stone – but at that moment that was the only difference between him and them. With all the speed of the shifting earth, Ico realized that she was waiting for a word, but whether she wanted mouth, lips, gums, teeth, he did not –

But then he did.

With a happy face but bittersweet eyes, he said, "Smile."

* * *

Translations:

Sando?: Bad?

Ithe gorson. Ithe harikin. Sando vinti tuea. : Not good. Not wanted. Bad to you.

Rolif duns erth iln! : Get down from there!

Duns! : Down!

Era dolina? : What is this?

Yui doloni?: And that?

Furleta asanta!: How beautiful!

Tuea lagoto co.: You left me.

I have to say that I am posting up this chapter in very high spirits. This has to do with two main things: One I just came back from a very fun weekend (one which I spent with my family and old highschool friends). It was very nice to be able to see some old faces once again before I had to book it back to college. But, more importantly, (at least in regard to this fanfic) I am ecstatic because I actually have a reviewer! Pecal truly made my day not only with his review but also with his reply to my reply to his review (not this again...). So I am very interested to hear what he (or perhaps should I say you? Maybe you'll be my one-man audience?) has to say about this upcoming chapter, along with anything else he (you) might say about our private messaging.


	4. Water that Burns

Distant Hills

_Sing "nonomori" - endless corridors_

_Say "nonomori" - hopeless warriors_

Peace … it was such a odd word to him.

Ico tended to group it with other words such as gods, good, hero, compassion, love and nobility. They were words that encompassed certain thoughts, ideas, concepts – and, in theory, such things Ico could grasp – but in the actuality, in the reality of his life, such ideals were nonsense to him. Gibberish in a way that Yorda's flighty language never was. The words were there, but the experiences were not. Peace, he knew of peace, but he had not felt it. The boy had never been filled with the light, content state of being simply at peace, with himself, with the others around him, and with the world. Nonsense. Utter nonsense.

Until now, that is.

He walked slowly, one hand engulfing Yorda's small pale one and the other clutching his Lorendo Shawl – which was near filled to bursting with apples and berries;lumpy spheres that made the cloth ripple – over a boney shoulder Leaves were crunched under sandals and bare feet. The wind was but a breeze, a soft trickle, a sighing tickle, against his dirtied cheek. Hundreds of different noises, from the cawing of the birds that Yorda so loved, the scurrying of a rabbit as it darted into the brush, the clacking of acorns falling and breaking against a carpet of mossy rocks, the hiss of cascading waters, the sigh of the wind, the flutter of Yorda's –

Wait.

Ico stopped in his tracks and Yorda halted with him, but the young boy could feel her curious gaze on him. At the moment, however, all that Ico was paying attention to were the sounds. The many emissions of Kuromori's Bride, which had been lulling him to a pleasant drowsiness with their harmonious lullaby but a moment ago. Sounds that had been causing him to be truly at ease for the first time, giving him a sense of _rightness_ with the world. But no longer. Now he was dissecting the noise, digging and searching and stretching his sense. And there! He heard it again! A giddy grin exploded into being on his face. And, just like that, he snapped his head over to Yorda, his whole body quivering with barely contained elation and excitement. "Water!" The boy with stubs exclaimed, "Water, Yorda! Let's go!"

All Yorda had time for was a sharp, "Eep!" before being thrown forward.

Ico was bolting, rushing, forth now, heedless of any low hanging branches that might smack him or any thistles that may scrap or cut, and even, to his great shame later on, even to the way he was dragging Yorda along in his wake, her feet ramming and scrambling over grass, rock, dirt and root. The trees vanished and so did their feathery denizens. The wind disappeared and so did the twirling leaves that were ensnared in its caress. The sun was blotted out with its violent rays. All ceased to be save the sound of the churning water, which, upon comprehending its significance, caused the Screamer in Ico's throat, the Dancing Tribesmen with their incessant beat in his head, and the Monster in his belly, only slightly sated, all pour forth from the abyss and burst into life with a fearsome force.

All of a sudden, the veil of trees parted. Yorda stopped, halting as if she had been struck. But Ico did not hesitate, did not pause, did not even take the time to fully absorb the sight before him. He saw the sandy shore and he saw the stretch of blue waters. The Screamer was screaming, the Dancers were dancing and the Monster was howling, all at once, making his whole being radiating with pain. He did not need to see more. There was a river. That was all he needed to see.

Ico dropped the Lorendo Shawl to the ground, neither noticing or caring about the way the contents spilled and rolled. A second later he on the shore. A second more and he was on the ground, knees slamming into the cool sands. His head was hovering over the still waters, and his own reflection stared back up, a feverish tint in the doppelganger's almond eyes. Then a blink. Then, with a lurch, the boy dunked his head beneath the river's glossy surface.

He came up screaming seconds later.

His hands flew up to his soaked head, covering, clamping, squeezing, his now pulsating horn stubs. But the action did not stop the flowing blood. Rivers of the sticky, crimson substance was streaming down his face, running channels around his ears, clinging to his brown locks, dripping, dripping, dripping to the shell-covered sands beneath him, all the while threatening to cloud his vision. But before he could wipe the blood away, Yorda was there, his Lorendo Shawl in her grasp. With hurried yet cautious strokes she began to clean off his face. Ico winced and yowled the moment the cloth touched his irritated, puffy, puss-filled skin around the stubs. Yorda paused. Then started up again – more gently this time. Ico's body calmed. His head cooled.

Then Ico took a glance at the waters, and his body was screaming again and his throat was being carved with knives.

He leaped towards the water. Yorda was faster. She grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back. He jolted a bit, his body swaying, before glancing up at her in shock. His eyes widened. The action was surprising. Her expression was terrifying. Yorda was _livid. _More then that, she was scared. Her hands were on his shoulders and they were squeezing his bones painfully. Ico merely stared, numb and blinking, as Yorda hissed, "Era tuea dost? Wonlthas tuea!"

He didn't understand. He didn't want to understand. His eyes trailed over her shoulder and stared into the waters and he his body was on fire and his mind was reeling. He took a step forward, but Yorda pressed on his shoulders again, the ire and the fear growing rapidly in her eyes. She … ugh! "You don't understand!" Ico heard himself say, desperation settling over him, overcoming him, "I need it!" He reached his hands up and clasped her wrists, all the while looking into her eyes, a steely determination blossoming into life, from the depths of his soul. Carefully, he said, "I will go drink. But I won't," He paused for a moment and then bobbed his head, "No" and he did it again.

Yorda's hands lost their iron. "Ithe?" She murmured, tone suspicious, "No?"

Ico nodded. "No. I'm just going to drink." She looked at him. He looked at her. She dropped her hands.

This time, when he approached the water's edge, he went slowly, feeling Yorda's ever present gaze. Therefore, the scene before him fully imposed itself on him. The line of trees opened up to a giant clearing. The forest floor, swathes of grasses, stretched for a few feet after the treeline before fading into the shoreline. The river itself was startlingly wide, ten canoes could form a wall across it, tied nose to tip. Yet there, across the blue expanse, was the rest of the forest, towering trees that blurred into a mass of brown and green. To the left, the river bended fading out of sight. But to the right –

It was enough to make Ico stop. Truly _stop_.

A cliff rose to the right, jutting high into the sky. Seven men, standing crouch on each others' shoulders would not have been able to touch the edge. The cliff itself was pitted with caves, caverns, wide, gaping openings and narrow, jagged cracks. Yet from each of these mouths poured endless water, tumbling, bubbling, cascading down and down and down, continuously splashing and churning in torrents. A bead of water would fall from the mouth, splash into the river and then be swept away in a blink of an eye. A waterfall. Dozens of waterfalls. Glistening in the sun's rays, rainbows dancing to the roiling beat. Slowly, painfully, Ico teared his gaze away from the sight to settle on the shoreline, his body's screaming now just a sore ache. Could awe quench thirst?

Just naming the state caused the Screamer in his throat to act up again and for his world to shake.

So no. No it couldn't.

Wearily, Ico collapsed onto his knees, letting out haggard pants. Once the world had tightened once more, he found that Yorda was on the shore with him, though she was still a few feet away, reaching out as if to touch him, yet hesitating. Ico bit his lip. He turned his gaze away. _Why do I keep worrying her?_ Came the disdainful thought, but after it came another, filled with conviction. _I must be stronger. _His back became rigid, trying his best to adopt a proud posture and he buried all other thoughts, all other feelings, all other sensations, far, far away. Focusing only on the water and its currents before him. In a smooth motion, Ico cupped his hands together and then dipped them in. The cold bite the river struck him suddenly, and the hairs on his hands bristled. The waters parted for a second time as he rose his hands up. Already water was trickling down through some of the cracks in his fingers. He opened his mouth, tilted the hands back and downed the water in one gulp.

It took every once of his willpower not to scream again. His entire throat _burned_ at the sensation. The knives were at work again, but a second later he was dipping his hands into the water again and then downing more water, hoping the pain would vanish. It didn't. But he did it again and again and again. Sure enough, the pain did leave and in its place a overwhelming sense of relief, elation, release, overcame him. Sudden, fast, abrupt. Ico sighed, his body shaking. He sat back down with a thump. When the pleasant tide of feelings left, only pure exhaustion remained. The stickiness on his forehead was not the river's water or blood, but perspiration.

Through his sweat-soaked bangs, Ico watched as Yorda crouched down besides him. Her eyes were fixed on him. Ico's eyes flicked over towards the waterfalls, still there basking in their natural glory. First the birds, then the stars, now the waterfalls. He didn't know why she was suddenly concerning herself so much for his sake, but he wanted it to stop. She should be doing what she enjoyed. This was the world, displayed before her. The sight to his left was amazing, even to him who had grown up in the world and was one of the many mere mortals that scurry about it. He could not imagine what it would be like to one such as Yorda. He was nothing compared to such works of Kuromori's hands, he was nothing compared to anything. She should not be worrying so much for his sake. He was not worth the effort.

Ico felt his gaze drift down to his sandals, and, before he truly stopped to think about it, he was bending down to strip them off, one lace at a time. Soon, his bare feet were touching the sands and he felt the grains clump between his toes and the indent of a shell or two beneath his heels. He began to scoot forward, dragging his hindquarters over the sand and causing a furrow to form, before he dunked his aching feet into the waters. It was the best decision he had made all day. All at once a euphoric sensation washed over him, starting at his toes and then swarming upwards. Ico's eyes rolled up to the top of his skull and he let out a large sigh as he flopped to the ground. The water continued to lap at his feet, at his ankles, at his calves.

After a while, his gaze turned to the right, where he saw Yorda sitting, crossed legs beneath her. Now, _finally_, she had settled back to her old self, her eyes gazing upon the waterfalls. He turned his sights back towards the sky above and, once again, that content feeling seemed to wash over him, in tune to the tides of the riverbed as it came forward and then retreated against his scabby feet. Wispy clouds crept across the heavens, and, for a mad moment, Ico simply wished to lay there, staring, staring, staring, forevermore up to the sky, as the day turned to night and the night turned to day. Water flowing, splashing, swirling, the breeze caressive, the noise ambient, all combining, one after another, into a melody. He felt his eyes droop, felt the pleasure spread and could imagine sprites, bright and glowing, floating over the waters' edge. His eyelids fell a fraction more and then –

_A soft lullaby. Heavy sobbing. Screams, "Lanlait ulinha! Lanlait ulina!" Yorda screaming, shrieking, broken. _

Ico reared up, jerked up, with a sudden snap and twist of his body. He twirled his head around. And there was Yorda, simply sitting there. Staring at him with surprise, but with eyes that were clearly tear-free. Unsure, yet still composed, still dignified. When she did speak up, her voice was calm, gentle, lacking any sort of hysteria, "Ico?" The boy in question took a calming breath, but now that the word was risen to the forefront of his mind, he could not shoo it away. Lanlait. Lanlait. Lanlait. It echoed. Lanlait. Lanlait. Lanlait. He bit his bottom lip. He looked away.

Yorda's eyes were on him. She wanted to know what was wrong.

He thought, he truly thought, and then decided … why not?

Ico turned his gaze back on the girl. He rose his index finger and jab it on his breastbone, "Ico." He said. He then reached out across the gap and pointed at her, finger hovering near her shoulder. "Yorda." He said. Now the girl understood yet at the same time still seemed more confused then before. Ico could understand. After all, the both of them already knew this. It's this next part that was the tricky bit, the untested waters, the boy had no idea just what he was jumping into or what possible repercussions it might have. After he pointed at her, he held up two fingers, making sure she understood, before slowly raising a third. It was this third one he pointed to with his other hand, and with it, he asked a question. A simple question. "Lanlait?"

Never had Ico wished to reel in the words he had just spoken back into his mouth so badly. Not even the time he was beaten for speaking up.

Yorda went limp. She did not freeze. She did not still. She did not pause. She did not hesitate. She went _limp_. It was as if all the strength in her suddenly fled all at once and her very skin was sagging off her bones. Her very body now far too heavy to bare the burden of living. She was dead, dead while breathing. And such a terrible sight flashed behind her eyes that Ico felt his breath hiss between his parted lips. Her eyes looked haunted, the grayness of them darkening into pools of foggy smoke. Her head bowed, as if her neck could no longer support it. It was then that her hair, for once actually looking sickly, flopped in front of her face. "Co Lanlait." She murmured finally, after a steady silence. The words seemed to have been whispered from the depths of a heavy slumber. Half-awake, half-living; half-asleep, half-dead. All at once. Her pale hand clasped around the hem of her gown and she bunched the fabric into a ball and _squeezed_, as if it was sodden and she was trying to ring it out, drop by drop.

Ico wished he was dehydrated again. That pain was easier to deal with. "Yorda?"

He honestly didn't think she would answer him. For a moment, Ico was afraid she would never speak to him again. That she would suddenly realize that she was relying on the one who had _murdered_ her only loved one, her very foundation in the world, and become utterly disgusted with him. He thought she might simply get up and flee. Or worse. That she would simply dissipate into a grayish fog which would then cling to the river and climb up to the waterfalls. But then she tilted her head up again and her balance was restored and it all ended and Ico had to fight off the urge to pinch his arm to make sure he did not just have a waking dream.

"No." Yorda said, her face tear-stain free, though her eyes were shimmering, "Ithe Lanlait. Traimalle."

"Tray – mal – lee?" Ico slowly repeated, wrapping his mind and his tongue around the word.

Though he struggled with it, it was far worth it, for the boy could tell that Yorda's mood was lightened. She smiled and Ico knew everything would be fine. "Weirn. Traimalle. Lanlait yodilas Traimalle." And just like that, Ico was confused again. She just said that word again! Lanlait! Which one was it, Lanlait or Traimalle? Yet Yorda seemed to sense where his thoughts were turning, because she too extended out her index finger. But instead of pointing it at him or herself, she instead stabbed it downward, into the sand, three times, daintily yet with a flash of iron. Three holes remained, forming a triangle. She pointed to the one on the left. "Cazanli." It was a odd word, Ico felt. It was separate from the other slur of words she had thus spoken, but it lacked the power and the punch of the word _Lanlait._ Speaking of which, Yorda now pointed to the hole on the right and stated, "Lanlait."

Who knew one word could cause a mess of emotions straining to rise to the forefront of a person's eyes?

But then that thought was shoved aside as Yorda pointed to the last finger-hole and murmured the word, "Erancha. Co sa eranch. Lainlait eranchas." Her finger then floated up to the dot on the right, and it is then that she tore her gaze away from the sands to look into his eyes, eyes that were ridged with iron. She wanted … she needed … him to understand this. "Traimalle conthia lanlait."

She needed him to understand … but he didn't. He just didn't. Ico felt a flush overcome his cheeks. He looked the other way quickly. "Sorry."

Ico quickly forgot his rottenness when she saw the look that came over Yorda's face then. He watched as her eyes hardened and her face scrunch up as her eyebrows furrowed into narrow lines. Concentration. That was what he saw. Concentration, it was a different look, one that he had not yet seen on Yorda's face. But the look did not last long, for soon her face seemed to come to life, a far lighter mood sweeping over her and a vitality began to burn beneath her skin. With a smile tugging at her lips she scooted over some, before jabbing her finger three more times into the sand. She did not even attempt to do so with any guise of gracefulness. Once again she went through her routine. "Cazanli." Her finger moved. "Lanlait." Her finger moved. "Erancha." It is then that her finger stopped, and then she turned her gaze to him, a eagerness shinning in her eyes. "Ico." She said simply. "Ico sa eranchas. Tuea sa eranchi." She pressed her palms to the sands. She looked at him. Waiting. Hoping. What was she –

And then it clicked. "Oh!" Ico exclaimed, eyes widening, "It's a family!"

Of course, Yorda knew nothing of his language either, but she could see the understanding in his eyes. Triumph shone in hers.

Now Ico was excited. Very excited. His eyes snapped back to the original three holes. "If you are the daughter," He began, his finger pointing to the bottom of the triangle, "and Traimalle is the mother," he moved to the one on the top right before moving to the left, "then what about your father?" Ico could tell that Yorda wasn't following him, she had that blank look in her eyes that he thoroughly despised. Luckily, it did not last long, for she saw which of the three points Ico was pointing to and enlightenment was quick in coming.

"Co Cazanli?" He thought that was the word she had used for father, so he nodded. Yorda shrugged.

Ico need not be told what _that_ meant.

Suddenly, Ico felt his whole body become warm, as tenderness flooded him, as fondness flooded him. He did not think he could care for Yorda more then he already did, be more willing to go to any lengths for her sake, but he found that was not the case. Not the case at all. Yorda did not know who her father was. She had not the faintest idea. And, just like that, the gap between them seemed smaller, their differences lighter, and Ico felt extremely compelled to jump up and shout for joy at that. But then he remembered. Then he remembered. And suddenly, the sentence took on a terrible, new, meaning.

Yorda did not know who her father was.

But Yorda herself was already moving on, and was instead gesturing at the other group of holes. She herself, was still brimming with energy, the same sort of force that had filled her earlier on in that day, while she had fluttered about, from thing to thing, pointing and pointing while Ico gave word after word. That same sort of energy. She wanted to learn. She wanted to learn about _him_. "Era quis tuear ca zanli? Tuear lanlait? Era yodillan?"

Ico merely blinked. "What?"

Yorda looked like she might actually have been annoyed at him for that. But then she reined herself in. Instead, she pointed to the top two holes in the triangle and said, clearly and distinctly, yet not slowly so that Ico felt like he was a invalid, the words, "Ico cazanli yui lanlait." That's when he understood, and suddenly he felt uncomfortable. Did she really want to know … yes, she did. Of course she would. She was naturally curious. A second ago he had wanted to know about her parents, so why wouldn't she want to know about his?

Even so, he had to be sure. "My mother and father?" She nodded. He shrugged.

Yorda stilled. She blinked. Her face lost what little color it had. "Era?" When Ico still simply looked at her, sitting in the sands, Yorda straightened and turned around to face him, the iron stretching and overcoming all softness in her eyes. In her body. "No mother? No father?" Ico had to push down the chill that came to him when he heard her flawless pronunciation, and saw testimony to her memory. He just could not let himself think upon such things. So, instead, he simply nodded.

One of Yorda's hands dropped. It erased two of the holes. She didn't seem to notice.

Time drained on after that, for Yorda seemed too lost in her own thoughts and Ico did not wish to disturb her. Instead, once again, the boy with stubs found himself lying on his back, once again staring up into the heavens and once again listening to melodies of the forest around him, trying desperately to still his beating heart and his racing mind. Calm. Peace. He had not known peace before today, but once he had tasted it he wished for it back. He wanted to relax, feel the tide against his feet as it washed away his iniquities. Softly. Sighing. Breathing. In and out. He focused on each toe, on each finger, on each hair that covered his body, and told them all to rest at ease.

His reverie was broken when Yorda came over and laid herself down beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, Ico watched as she inched her feet closer to the water. _That is so like her_, Ico thought with a lazy smile as he let himself drift back into his contentment, _Always wanting to try something new, especially if I do it. _Ico could feel his smile etched onto his face, and though it had only been two days, already it felt as if it was a natural thing to do – smiling, that is. This is what peace felt like. A odd thing, nothing would change that, but still, Ico couldn't help but think that peace was rather –

Yorda screamed.

Nothing. Not a single thing in the entire world could make Ico jump to his feet and reach for a sword that did not exist so rapidly. "Yorda!" He exclaimed, eyes darting towards her just in time to see her snap her feet back from the river as if the waters had bit her. He moved without thinking. For the next thing he knew, Ico was treading through the water, so that he was standing in the water while Yorda was sitting on the shore. Then he knelt, knees thumping on the mud, before her. Yorda tried to desperately scurry back, shooting out words in a hurry, words that Ico did not understand but knew to be protests nevertheless. But even that did not stop him. His hands snapped out and he catch her ankles. As gently as he could, he pulled them up so that the bottom of her feet were displayed before him.

And then Ico cursed for the first time in Yorda's hearing. For the first time in his _life. _

There was no was no other way to describe it. Yorda's feet were hideous. There was not a speck of smooth skin there. It was all cut, torn, blackened, ragged, calloused and rugged. Even the inside web between each toe was not spared. He could see thousands of miniscule cuts and even clumps of dried blood. One of her big toes even looked fractured, like it had been smashed against a rock or a stone and did not have the time to properly heal. And this was only what was visible. There could be more. So much, much more, beneath the layers of dirt.

It was a terrible thought, a thought that made his head spin, but, more then that, a thought that made his body _move_.

Before he could blink, he had a puddle of water cupped in his hands and was letting it splash against Yorda's right foot. The hiss she made when the water touched was enough to make him almost stop. Almost. He remembered what it was like when he first took that first gulp of water. It stung. It hurt. It burnt. But, eventually, the pain faded and relief came. So he kept on. Cupping water, splashing water and rubbing, using his hands, fingernails and the very sands beneath him to scrub at Yorda's feet. One and then the other. It was only as he was dipping his hands into the water once again that a thought rushed to the surface, striking out at him with all the suddenness and viciousness of a coiled, hidden viper.

_I'm washing Yorda's feet. I'm washing her feet like a bondsman would._

But that thought was nothing compared to the one that came after it:

_Of course I would – she is a princess after all._

Just like that, Ico was slammed with the vision of the Queen, sitting regally poised upon the stone throne in the wide, yet abandoned, throne-room, where the whispers of the magnificence of a bygone era chimed unto his soul. He remembered the rumors, the hushed conversations, the steely looks, the somber conviction of the village, that they must do as they were told. Drawn by the force of a mysterious figure many, many leagues away. The fullness of the Castle, every room, every chamber, every door, every piece of extinguish artwork, every prick of stone. A wonder. A staggering sight that spoke of uncomprehending glory of the ones who came before – yet it was all swept away when _she_ gave away her last breath. Lastly, there came a simple image, that of the three holes that Yorda so happily made. The scene itself was twisted before his eyes, distorted and flipped on its end.

Yorda did not know her father … Ico did not know his parents. But it did not matter. It did not matter one bit. For Yorda had in her benign blood, the blood of kings, the blood of queens, the blood of leaders, the blood of rulers. He did not know the facts. He did not need to know the facts. It did not matter if Yorda was similar to him or different. It did not matter if her Castle no longer stood or that any traces of her inheritance, if she ever had one, had vanished beneath the waves and dissolved into the mist. It did not matter. A princess was a princess, even one that was in pauper's clothing. He was a fool, a damn fool, to ever think, to ever dream of thinking, otherwise. He was not fit to be in the presence of a princess. He was not fit to be in a place a princess once had been. Much less be _seen _ by her. Much less _talk _to her. Much less _touch _her! Much less be her _fri-_

His hands flew away from Yorda's feet, his body jumped and leaped away, fumbling in the waters.

Yorda was stunned. She stared at him, eyes widen and uncomprehending, "Ico?"

It was a mantra in his head now. _Yorda is a princess. Yorda is royalty. Yorda is a princess. Yorda is - _

A female voice shrieked, "Resina! You have no shame! No shame at all! How could you think – "

The words went as quickly as they came, but in their wake Ico felt his entire body shut down. His entire mind glaze and frost over. His eyes wide, his mouth hanging, his body tense and still. From the waist down he was soaked and he was standing in the midst of a swiftly churning river. To his side, dozens of waterfalls poured down their torrents. Noises. So many noises, noises that had often lulled him asleep back in the Kurumori Forest that bordered the village. Noises that he had been listening to but moments before, letting them overcome him as peace, elusive peace, finally became accessible to him. But now it was all gone. Now the noises were hushed. The forest silent, it's melody striking a foul note, the sense in the air twisted, contorted, _tainted_. Ico felt every hair on his small body rise on end and his heart was plummeting and racing and soaring and tumbling all at once.

"Humans." Ico might as well have said, _Gods. _

* * *

Translation:

Era tuea dost? Wonlthas tuea! : What are you doing? It hurts you!

Ithe? : No?

Lanlait : Mother

Co Lanlait. : My Mother.

Ithe Lanlait. Traimalle. : Not Mother. Traimalle. (Pronounced: Tray – mal – lee)

Weirn. Traimalle. Lanlait yodilas Traimalle. : Yes. Traimalle. Mother's name is Traimalle.

Cazanli: Father

Erancha. Co sa eranch. Lainlait eranchas: Child. I am a child. Mother's child. (Note: Child is not quite the correct term. In Yorda's language there isn't a word for _Daughter _or _Son_. A more strict translation would be "Offspring")

Traimalle conthia lanlait: Traimalle is my mother.

Ico sa eranchas. Tuea sa eranchi.: Ico is a child. You is/are a child.

Co Cazanli? My Father?

Era quis tuear cazanli? Tuear lanlait? Era yodillan?: What about your father? Your mother? What are their names?

Ico cazanli yui lanlait: Ico's father and mother.

Era? : What?

Well. That took me longer then I thought it would to get out. This chapter by far is one of my favorites, which, is funny, because it gave me a minor brain spasm to write. Especially with going back and making sure that I haven't contradicted myself with Yorda's language. (Take, for instance, with the word "my"). But before I get any farther talking about the chapter itself, I first want to give my thanks. Particularly to my two new readers, BlueVision and Numbuh Six-sixtysix. At BlueVision, I want to openly say that yes, I do have a plot, but it is moving very slowly. In fact, this chapter sees the end of the slow-moving "forest" part of the story. Whether or not Ico wants it, civilization has come knocking, and he, and we as the readers, are going to see the full consequences of just what he has done.

Now, as for the content of the story. There are two things of note.

There is a lot of learning going around. Ico learned the actual name of the Queen. (Which, by the way, is subject to change if you guys don't think Traimalle is regal/sinister enough), and that the father is a nonentity even to Yorda. Yorda, also, finds out that Ico is a orphan.

Ico finally comes with a answer of just what his relationship is with Yorda. And it is the wrong answer. It'll take some time after this for Ico to realize that even though Yorda is a princess that does not mean that he is her _servant, _despite how much he takes care of her/protects her.

And, as noted before, this is the last of the forest scenes. From now on you'll be seeing up close and personal the World of Ico.

That's it for now! I hope you all like it so far!


	5. Statue of Iron

Distant Hills

_You Were There_

_You Were There_

In Morisiwa, there was a game the children always loved to play – it was called Tulwantila. The Advocates in the Shulian were the first to tech it to the waddling toddlers, and then, as the villager children grew, they would continue on to play with their Shulian mates, shrieking and giggling and hollering into the morning sunrise. Some of Ico's fondest memories involved finding some nice, thick shrubbery to hide behind as he watched the other children play.

Tuliwantila is a simple game. All that is required is a scrap of cloth and a ball, which was normally a rock with tightly bound layers of hide wrapped around it. The game started with the children forming a ring around the ball, with the cloth bundled beneath it. Then, the last Horned Hallow screams, "Tuliwan!" and all the children rushed the ball at once. Once there, the children could grab the ball, the cloth, or both at once. The one with the cloth was the Clothling, the one with the ball – the Ball Bearer, and the one with both was deemed as the Horned Hallow.

When Ico rushed out of the water, reaching for his discarded Lorendo Shawl with its pile of berries and apples, he thought, for one mad moment, that he was playing Tuliwantila. Despite how inappropriate that sentiment was with a gaggle of human women about to come around the bend and spot him and Yorda standing there any moment now, he couldn't help but crack a smile. But he could not allow himself to be distracted, so, instead, the boy with stubs shoved all thoughts aside and simply tied a quick knot and slung the Shawl with its fruit over his shoulder before darting into the thicket, pausing once to make sure Yorda was right behind him.

The forest enveloped them, and the brief stirrings were all that showed of their passage. Once the tow of them were deep enough inside, Ico stopped, dropping the Shawl and its contents to the ground to lean against a tree trunk. Yorda ghosted over, still and staring. He took a breath, and then took another one. Only then did the thought occur:

_What do I do now? _

And following it, _We need to go back with them. _

The thought came with authority, with certainty, like one of the decrees from the Elder Eyes. Ico slumped further against the tree trunk, trying desperately not to look at Yorda, who was still staring at him. They would have to go to whatever village these women came from because he was too weak to take care of the two of them on his own. Ico, of all people, knew the rigors of trying to live off a forest. Trying to do so without a village to go into to trade with, in a land that was unfamiliar, and while needing to provide for two?

They would freeze to death before starvation struck.

Now, and only now, did Ico glance up at Yorda, and he did so in a different manner than before. His gaze inspected, examined, dissected, instead of soaked in her presence like one of the sea sponges on the ocean's smarmy floor. He trailed over her dirty, ragged, haggard and yet still silky and billowing white gown, a dress that no boor lass would ever get a chance to don. He traveled up to her face, pale like a winter's frost, enshrouded by locks of such a gray that even the ancients of Morisiwa, those who have been blessed with sixty or more summers, were endowed with. Underneath those curls were Yorda's pointed ears, that twitched as she squirmed under his scrutiny. Her gray, brewing eyes looked up at him with uncertainty.

"Ico?" She asked, but he was already moving.

Ico now knelt before his Lorendo Shawl, and quickly grabbed at the edges and violently shook it up and down, scattering the apples and berries in every direction. He held it up before him, the threadbare piece ridden with grass, dirt, blood and juice stains. He fingered the hole in the middle, the one meant for his scrawny neck, stretching it out a bit, before scanning the ground nearby. A sharp, jagged stone winked back at him. Ico smiled as he picked it up.

He set to work – tearing and ripping and shearing.

Meanwhile, Yorda looked on, curious as always.

Soon, the young boy with stubs was holding two separate halves, held in two tight fists. Next, he stood up and began to head back to the river. Ico paused when he realized that Yorda had not followed him. She was still standing where she had been before, but instead of looking at him curiously, she was staring at him bewilderingly, as if he uttered a quirky riddle that had left her stumped. In particular, she was staring at his hands, and the two pieces of cloth held in each.

"Ompa!" Ico said to her, rolling out the o and emphasizing the pa.

Yorda recognized the call, she recognized it instantly, and, with a small gasp, hurried along behind him. Soon the two children were heading back to the riverside. Ico had then paused, at the final edge of the thicket, in order to cautiously peer out. The small clearing was abandoned, the women had not reached this far in yet – perhaps they were not intending to slip so deeply into the heart of the forest at all. That would be understandable, for why would any one dare to delve too deeply into any forest heart, and risk stirring up the powablas_? _The sprites who linger after death, clinging to the elder trees. Kuromori's gaze was sharp and piercing, Ico of all knew this to be true.

He pushed aside the branches and strode out. Ico noticed that the river's waters looked the same as they did before, with white foam fizzling out against the sandy shore. He wasn't sure why, but the boy had been expecting for some great change to have swept over their depths. But the only altercation was in the image that peered back at him from the water's glossy surface. In particular, the two limp, yet colorful, scraps of cloth held in Ico's grasp.

He held out one of those scraps to Yorda – in between two calloused fingertips. It was clear that she was surprised. She outstretched a pale hand timidly only to draw it back again, as if some invisible creature was snapping at her palm. Yet firmly Ico held it out, trying to coax her, without words, to take it. Yorda finally did – but with much hesitation and wonderment.

Ico wandered over to the river, gazing down at his reflection. Though, in all truth, the boy did not need it. With practiced motions he began to fold the cloth once, twice, three times, and then began to wrap and weave it around his head, his eyes cemented on the waters below. As he watched, his fully, unruly mat of brown curls began to fade away, disappearing underneath a blanket of bright blue, like a tidal wave to drench his skull. Once the tides receded, only islands remained, but they too were covered up. And, of course, _they_ were gone also, swallowed by the cloth, for once, Ico's head was bare, both of horns or the stub of horns.

The Clothling had swallowed up the Horned Hallow ... now that's a interesting game of Tulwantila.

A small smile broke out at that thought, his hands held up in his work. At the same time, Yorda had been busy examining her portion of the Shawl. Even with all the stains, the crystalline azure stood out starkly in the sunlight. Yorda had no way of knowing that the gaudy piece of clothing was unusual, and that Ico's similarly bright crimson tunic, snowy white trousers, and rich leather sandals were equally so. It had taken the villagers several months of hard labor and trade to create the sapphire Lorendo Shawl, the ruby Horthinal, and the diamond Toranth. And while they were not gems in truth, the Shawl, the tunic and the trousers themselves were each invaluable in their own right, as the garb of a sacrifice to the gods must be.

The garb for the gods – all ruined in a day, and, for the Shawl, torn in twine in seconds.

Survival was paramount, survival was god, as it had been for Ico since the moment of his birth.

Instead, the girl was gazing at the patterns that were sewn onto the Shawl, lazily tracing them around and around with a single digit. She paused at the sigma for Ico's guardian colosi – the giant Malus – for Ico had been born in the last, the sixteenth, moth, and glanced up, a unconscious motion, more to shift her eyes from one place to the next more then anything else. She passed over Ico's form, having caught interest in something up above, only for her eyes to widen and her head to snap back, mouth falling open and forming a small o.

The Shawl fluttered out of her numb-struck fingers.

She was staring at him, and it was the gaze, the one she gave at the birds. It was the gaze she gave to any new startling wonder that was thrown her way. Ico was suddenly struck by a memory from yesterday, when he had taken off his Shawl for the first time. Her surprise was understandable, in part, because it was the first time he had taken off the piece of clothing in her sight, but, from the way she continued to act, the way that expression of mind-blown surprise radiated off her, she must not have even known it was _possible_ for anyone to do such a thing. Which, of course, raised a few interesting questions, primarily, if Yorda had never taken off a piece of her clothing in all her years, why did she smell like a new-time spring, with the flagrance of a plethora of blossoming flowers? Ico was use to ignorance of some form, he had witnessed, with no small amount of scorn, the way the young men of the village, eager to test their manhood, stumbled about in Kuromori's den, making enough noise to make the game they were hunting scatter before in every which way. But, this was of another level entirely, to her, Ico's flimsy disguise must have seemed like a transformation.

All of a sudden, understanding dawned and Yorda's hand struck out, snatching up the fallen cloth. Now she was looking up at Ico with eager eyes and a unending energy, always smiling and smiling. She tilted her head and then gestured with a finger, pointing at her temple, brushing a lock away from her ear absentmindedly as she did.

Again, Ico knew what she meant, "Yes, you need to have a turban too."

Yorda opened her mouth, about to ask something, most likely to inquire about which one of Ico's funny words matched with the funny thing on his head, when her mouth closed shut again. Instead, she merely nodded, slowly moving her head back and forth. Ico's eyes anxiously glanced over to the bend, trying to make out the female voice from before, but he could only hear the forest emissions. He would hear them if one of them exclaimed again or if they drew closer. The prospect of the later made his stomach squirm, they had to hurry!

Ico glanced back to see how Yorda was faring only to see her staring at her half of the Shawl with clear puzzlement written on her scrunched up features. Then the boy realized: she did not know how to do it. By the gods! Why the hell did he think she did? Did he not acknowledge, mere moments ago, her incredible ignorance in matters as natural as breathing to him? Instinctively, Ico took a step forward to help her when a sudden thought struck, harsh and deep.

_The only way I can aid her is by touching her. I can't do that. I have no right to do such a thing!_

The truth resounded in him like a gong, ringing his bones dry. It was clear in the way her gown fluttered in the breeze and the way she held herself before him – firm, rigid, poised. Her trials could not conceal the magnificent elegance of her garb or could weariness mar her regal disposition. In her splendor, Ico felt contaminated, like a rapid dog, latched with frayed rope to a wooden fence, smarmy fur riddled with fleas, when a dove floated on by in the currents above. The distance between a dog and a dove was vast indeed. On his scalp, even buried beneath a velvety turban, his stubs burned.

But then a giggle shot around the bend, Yorda yelped, and he remembered that this was a necessity.

Yorda was distracted, staring down at the river by her side with clear fright, murmuring the words, "Ithe erin dolis wonlthas, ulilthas!" He figured now was as good as a time as any, especially with the women (for it was surely a different voice this time around) drawing nearer. So, with a deep breath, Ico took a step forward.

Yorda became rigid when he gently took the Shawl out of her hands and let one of his own glide up to cup the side of her face. It was not the same sort of rigid as before, which was a natural one for her, as hereditary to her as his horns were for him. No, this was a steeliness that came only when the whole of a body rebels. He took the cloth and began to wound it about her skull, much like he had seen mothers do to their young. Yet with every inch that his fingers moved, he felt a darkness, the darkness that was in him, the darkness that he had inherited from his ancestor so long ago, leak out, trickle by trickle, into her, scorching her with each and every touch. He felt wretched, no, he _was_ wretched, especially because she just remained still, so still. _She can feel it_, Ico thought, and knew it to be true. _I am staining her and she can feel it!_

It was only a matter of time before she exploded, jumping back from his touch with a barrage of words, normally so fluid, colliding about clumsily from her lips. "Salinth!" Her soft voice, while not loud, was shimmering, "Tuea melinos mionst co. Dost co gulen lian co! Con zanti sala rolinath!" At this point, her pale hands were shaking, as she furiously worked to do the last touches on the turban. Ico stood a few feet away. Desperately trying to not look at her, trying to not notice how her efforts were only causing the turban to unravel, trying to quell, to kill, the instantaneous urge to come to her side when she was in need, all the while basking in the terrible knowledge that his presence, his existence, was contaminating the very air she breathed.

Yorda stopped when the whole of the cloth became undone in her hands. But she did not give up, instead she was now gazing up at his turban, and her hands were moving, trying to match his efforts. Ico stood still, trying to be a good model, even as he stretched out his senses – trying, once again, to pick out that female voice he heard before. He was deathly afraid that the owner would come around the river-bend any moment, and spot the two of them standing there. Or more importantly, see Yorda's jet locks and elfin ears.

Speaking of which, Yorda herself had stopped now, the Shawl loose in her hands, utterly subdued. Ico felt her gaze upon him, and meekly he glanced up, half-expecting her to reprimand him in that lyric language of hers, warning him to never touch her again. Therefore, he was utterly stunned by the abashed look on her face and the apologetic tint to her tone when she said, "Con mel ithe dol thas. Hunra, mion co." And, if Ico thought he was confused before – he was left floored now when Yorda pushed out the Shawl to him – offering it up to him.

_She wants me to do it. _He realized, it was enough to make him take a step back.

It was not as surprising when he suddenly remembered the last three days, with all the times Yorda would easily take his hand when offered, or, even more recently, snatch it up when it was not. Just last night she had curled up beside him without any hesitation, without any qualms. Indeed, over the last couple of days the two of them had touched more often than any two kindred ever had in his sights. Granted, it was taboo to show affection in public back in Morisiwa, but that did not stop the realization from shaking him from the inside out.

They had been intimate, the two of them, and she – a princess!

Yorda too was confused now, and concerned, when she whispered, "Ico?"

And, just like that, Ico remembered that Yorda needed him.

His body acted on its own, as was its wont, as he lunged forward, grabbing up the cloth. His hands moved recklessly, hurriedly, the shock of the realization and the empowerment that came on him whenever Yorda was in need, (which had been often during their stay at the Castle) numbing the knowledge of his tainting of her. A moment later he stepped back, his relief in having to no longer touch her making his smile stretch out into a grin. "There." He said, sighing. "All done."

Masterfully done too. The turban matched his in a manner that it might be considered that the two of them came from the same place – from the same culture. Best yet, not a speck of Yorda's oddly pigmented hair or her uniquely formed ears could be made out under the layers of cloth. He did not know how long such a guise would last, and even with their oddities hidden, they could still be walking to their deaths if these villagers were hostile to outsiders, but they truly had no choice.

The moment that Ico began to move, walking along the river side, Yorda stirred and hurried to catch up with him. Casually, nearly without thought, Ico held out his hand, eyes widening a second later when he realized what he had done and his hand becoming like lead when Yorda took it up easily. _What am I going to do? _He wondered, frantic, _What am I going to do?_ His fingers tingled, and that darkness within him hissed. But on they walked still, his feet moving automatically as Yorda took in the winding river with interest and trepidation.

He had to let go. But if he did, he'd insult her. That was the truth of it. She was comfortable with him in a way no one else had been; no one else should be, least of all her, who was so above him. The only reason why she was fine with being so near to him was because of her ignorance, she had not been taught like he had been taught. But how to make her understand?

His struggle did not go unnoticed, for, with each step forward, Yorda's gaze first focused on him and then hardened, that iron surfacing, sharpening and striking out at him, as if to crack open his skull to pick apart the turbulent thoughts that were nestled inside. Ico did not dare look behind him, to meet her eyes, but he could imagine the expression awaiting there. A forehead wrinkled, lips sealed in a grim line, eyes narrowed – breath hitched.

Their linked hands were heavy between them.

Yorda seemed to have enough of it, "Ico – "

Her words seeped into nonexistence. Ico halted. They stared.

The children had rounded the bend, only to see the river snake before them, trees on either side becoming a emerald wall. Abruptly, the waters jolted to a halt, cascading down a waterfall, pouring over jagged rocks and firmament, into a bursting lagoon – a fat half circle oasis. There, doting the shore, was a band of two dozen women. With a hunter's efficiency, Ico scanned through them. Their features were hard to make out, from this distance, but that was mainly because they were all wearing identical clothing, all tanned robes, wrapped and folded into each other, and cobwebbed shawls clinging to their shoulders and bonnets covering their heads. Clay jars littered the place, some were nestled in sun-caked arms, balanced on shoulders or heads, or pressed into the sands as their bearers knelt before the pool.

Secondly, Ico noted, the women were of various ages. Small figures were systematically placed among the taller ones, carrying matching jars of miniscule stature. The voices were distinct now, a cheery buzz that rose and fell, cutting through Kuromori's murmurings and silencing them all at once. "The gods shook the world's heart, I said, like a – ", "Fierce witchcraft is hereabouts, fierce witchcraft. I swear upon – ", "My Ceremony of Salis is just a few moons away! There's going to be – " were but some of the phrases that rose up. He took a step forward, trying to pierce together the words.

When he did, Yorda's hand slipped out of his.

It was enough to startle him out of his daze, making Ico whirl around to face her. Just one look, just one measly look was enough to make all the color seep out of him, his mouth – just quenched with nourishment – parch, his strength shiver and his body threaten to follow suit. All the while he stood, staring and staring.

Yorda was dead on her feet.

He knew no other way to describe it, no other way to think it. At the end of his journey, Ico had ventured out to find Yorda after the Queen had snatched her away from him. He had succeeded, only to find her encased in stone, in the same pose she had been in the moment he had seen her last, with her legs tucked beneath her and one hand outstretched, to try to catch Ico's trailing one as he fell, seemingly, to his death.

Dead where she sat, dead where she stood – once more Yorda was encased in stone, and though it could not be seen by naked eyes, it was there all the same. She had been pale, unearthly pale, but her skin had never seemed so flaccid, so sagging, as it did then as she gazed down, upon the gaggle of women. Yorda gazed down with glazed eyes – with iron eyes, Ico realized. She was now iron, through and through. A living embodiment of iron – a effigy to stillness, in all its forms.

Finally, Ico chocked out, "Yor – " He licked his lips, "Yorda?"

To forge iron – it must melt – but in this case, it shattered.

Yorda had never seen a serpent, but she did a good impersonation of one nonetheless. The next thing Ico knew his back was pressed up against a tree again, scrapping against the bark, and Yorda was there in front of him – a vice grip on his shoulders – crazed storm – cloud eyes churning.

"Zindona! Ya zindona pa con!" She exclaimed like a heretic would when denouncing the gods.

When claiming something which defied the foundation of reality.

She let go of his shoulders and then wrapped her arms around her middle. Yorda then began to pace – to and fro – while Ico stayed slumped against that tree, trying to make sense of it all. Meanwhile, Yorda was babbling, taking frantic steps, "Co sonso co lanlo!" Her fingers dug deep into her sides. "Lanlait yui co, er ithest ark! Nan rees tuea forst yui co sonso – ithe!" She shouted the last bit, anger now infused in her every action. "Co ithe conse. Co sonso tuea fartesar, co ithe conse zindona pa tuea!"

Other voices rose up now, just as panicked, "Did you hear that?", "Some girl is screaming!", "Konda! The forest _is_ cursed!"

_No_, Ico thought, overbearing fear clouding him now too, _No!_

"Yorda," He hissed, becoming reanimated and stepping away from the tree. "You need to stop. You need to be quite." He had to be calm, for both their sakes. His voice was as soothing as he could make it, his gestures placating as he stepped forward.

Yorda did not spare him a glance.

"Hiya troithe Lanlait elli con?" Then just like that turned to face him, for the first time in her whole tirade. The look on her face slew him on the spot. It struck him, pushed him down, picked him up, and struck him once more. Her nose was scrunched up, her eyes cold – swimming with sick disdain. She stepped forward and, his world shattering about him, Ico stepped back.

Yorda snarled, _snarled!_, "Hiya troithe_ tuea_ elli con?"

"_Monster!" The baker's wife shrieked, tears streaming down her face. "My son is dead! **Dead!** Why? Why him and not you? You should be dead – you should be dead!" _Ico stumbled back a step.

"_A bad harvest! Do you know what this means, brat? It means we'll starve this winter! You've cursed us boy – you've brought ruin on us! How do the Eyes expect us to last five more years?"_ A silence fell as Yorda panted, anger flickering out of her eyes. _"You want __**what**__?" The pretty girl asked, disgust dripping off her, "You want to be on our team? We'd lose! You're bad luck, remember Beastman?" _The anger flickered out because horror extinguished it like water on a flame, _"Why did I feed him?" Said the stall owner who had given him a fresh fish to his friend, "That is a bit curious, is it not? But do not worry, friend, I am not fond of the dog. We need him to stay in the village. If no kindness is shown to him, the boy will run away, or worse, fall on a blade. He must serve his purpose."_

Yorda took a step forward. Ico turned on his heel and ran.

She shouted his name as the forest enveloped him.

* * *

Translation:

Tuliwantila: The Exorcism. Pronounced: Tool – e – want – till – a.

Ompa!: Come on! (Note: This comes straight from the game. It's the sound Ico makes whenever you push the "Yorda" button.)

Powablas: Ghosts. Pronounced: Poe – wa – blas.

Lorendo, Horthinal, Toranth: Tears, Fire, Clouds. (Note: I realize that I used the term "Lorendo" for the Lorendo Shawl for a while now, but I wanted to wait until I discussed about the significance of his clothing)

Ithe erin dolis wonlthas, ulilthas!: Not only does it hurt, it talks!

Salinth! Tuea melinos mionst co. Dost co gulen lian co! Con zanti sala rolinath!: Again! You're always helping me. Doing my work for me! I hate being so useless!

Con mel ithe dol thas. Hunra, mion co. : I can't do it. Please, help me.

Zindona! Ya zindona pa con!: Others! There are others like me!

Co sonso co lanlo!: I thought I was alone!

Lanlait yui co, er ithest ark!: Mother and I, but nothing else!

Nan rees tuea forst yui co sonso – ithe! Co ithe conse. Co sonso tuea fartesar, co ithe conse ya zindona pa tuea: Then you came and I thought – no! I didn't think. I thought you were special, I didn't think there were others like you!

Hiya troithe Lanlait elli con?: Why didn't Mother tell me?

Hiya troithe _tuea_ elli con?: Why didn't you tell me?

Uh … a belated Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to everyone?

Would you all hate me if I told you I had this done a week before Christmas? Granted, I still had to type it up ( I do most of my writing on pad with pen/pencil, which is kinda surprising.) but still, I was hoping to have this out as a surprise Christmas gift, of sorts, for my readers. It didn't really turn out that way. Anyway, I still hope that the holidays turned out well and I hope you're still interested in my story because I'm sure interested in writing it, especially because we're about to get to the exciting parts. (Notice I say exciting and not good. I tend to think all my work is good, to toot my own horn) Expect one more chapter before I wrap up Part I and also expect a couple new faces! After all, I can't have all those girls just sit around and do nothing, can I?

See you all soon!


	6. Fall

Distant Hills

_Am I forever dreaming_

_How to define the way I'm feeling_

Only once in Ico's life had he ever been beaten.

As the horned boy of Morisiwa, as the most Unwanted of the Unwanted, acknowledgment of Ico's existence was normally considered taboo. The man in question was the town's sole blacksmith, so he was built like a bull and had palms as rough as bark. A single punch to the jaw had Ico crashing to the leaf-layered ground, laying on his back coughing up blood until, Ruttle was his name, held him up from the collar of his tunic with one hand and buried his fist in the boy's belly with the other. At that moment, a numb blankness had settled over Ico from above, sweeping down and encompassing him in its embrace all at once. After that descent, Ico could remember nothing else until the moment he awoke in Elder Farsawn's hut, carefully bandaged and smeared with healing paste from holy herbs.

The same blankness was on him now.

So, as Ico thrashed about in the wilderness, stumbling over jutting tree roots, getting his ankles scratched by burly bushes and nearly tumbling head-first into a shallow ditch, not a thought entered his head, at least nothing resembling any sense of coherency. Whatever tumulus emotions that were fueling him were iced over by a thin yet firm numbness. Ico ran merely to run, no destination, no path, no purpose – no more, no less.

And so Ico ran. The boy ran with his lungs heaving and his soles aching from the effort. The world around him, a forest he and Yor – , he had dwelt in for the last couple days, suddenly was nothing more then a muted mass of blurs, one that was speeding past his body at a steadily increasing speed. Then, abruptly, the blurs converged into one another in a flash of brilliant white light.

A cliff had opened up under Ico's feet.

It was pure instinct alone that saved him. Ico threw his body back, leaning backwards as his arms cartwheeled frantically about in the air. The sudden movement was enough to push the boy off balance, making him land on his bum with a painful thud. The moment Ico opened his eyes he witnessed a fist-sized rock, loosened by his fall, cascade over the edge. Through the V of his knees, Ico sat still, utterly motionless, as he watched it hit a small speck in a narrow cut of blue that snaked across the ground far below.

The speck was in truth a giant boulder reaching out from the heart of a massive river.

For how long she stood there, behind him at the line of trees, calling out his name while he sat at the edge of the drop dazed senseless, Ico would never know. But when her desperate cry of, "Ico!" finally did break through to him, it was only with great effort did Ico manage to pry his gaze from his near death and look behind him.

At first, he did not realize it was Yorda. This had less to do with his jumbled state of mind and more to do with the way the girl's face as flushed with color. That and the way she was bent over, hands on knees, panting with drops of sweat running down her arms and legs so fiercely contradicted the image of Yorda in his mind that he could not help but think that a stranger stood before him. What Ico did not realize is that he did not look like himself either – for his face was deathly pale, almost as if the two had switched bodies.

But it only lasted for a moment, for at the next Yorda began to straighten, regaining her regal and graceful bearing while color began to leak back into Ico's face once his heart started to calm. That is where they remained, she standing before him, he sitting crossed-legged with his back to the canyon, and together with their eyes locked on one another.

Underneath the receding numbness, Ico was aware that he was both elated and terrified to see her.

It was then that Yorda's current state registered and understanding clicked inside Ico's mind. Did she run all this way after me? Slowly, with measured steps, Yorda approached, her bare feet sliding through the coarse grass. From where he sat, Ico felt transfixed, entranced by her nearing figure. Before he knew it, Yorda was crouched before him, peering onto him with eyes he could not read. "Fine?" She asked, breaking the silence.

Ico was surprised on many levels. Firstly, that she caught onto a word of his language when he did not directly teach it to her. Secondly, that she was worried about him. Slowly, Ico nodded his head and, when his throat no longer felt clogged up, forced out a "Yeah."

Yorda's shoulders sagged and a sigh fled from her parted lips which then broke out into a bright smile.

Ico barely had time to let out a gasp of surprise before she launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in the crook of his neck. She's hugging me. Ico thought numbly as Yorda mumbled more of her incomprehensible words. Ico could feel her trembling. Had she always been this afraid to be left alone? The sudden image of how he first saw her, trapped in that hanging cage, curled up in a ball with her head on her knees, flashed in his head, and the memory was only dashed away when her arms constricted more tightly around him. I abandoned her. I ran away. "I'm sor – "

"Now this is a surprise." A voice interrupted.

A voice that was definitely not Yorda's.

Ico jerked away from Yorda's embrace so fast that the girl was left floundering. But the moment she opened her mouth in protest she noticed what Ico was glaring at and immediately silenced, shifting her body so that Ico was standing between her and the three women before them who had come out of the tree line also, though further to the right.

They were part of the group from before. This Ico knew from the coarse brown robes that was their garb and the dainty shawls that graced their shoulders. The only thing these three lacked were the clay jars, but in their place were weapons. Each of the three held a stone dagger with a polished bone hilt in their left fist. Ico stared at them, his mind having more difficulty accepting the sight before him then it did when he met the Shadows for the first time.

Women with … weapons? And they intend to use them?

The woman in the middle, the one with the hardest eyes and the oldest face sighed, the knife vanishing as quickly as it came. "Claudine, Maura, put those away too. They're just kids." Both of the other women did as told. It was a bizarre sight, to see two women with the plumpness of mothers sheath blades with the cold efficiency of a skilled warrior.

Suddenly, the thought of leaving with these women to whatever home they hail from did not seem as appealing.

The one on the right turned her head towards the leader her auburn hair, speckled with gray, twirling about as she did. "But Mother, they are not normal children. They are clearly foreigners. What shall we do with them?"

At this point, Ico was wondering what he should do. Since the women realized they were outsiders, they were apparently not expecting them to understand them. Should he speak up and converse with them or should he remain quiet and try to gather more information from them unawares? It was then that Yorda took a step forward, grabbing a hold of his sleeve. One glance over his shoulder, into her fear filled and fully confused and lost gaze made his decision for him. A stab of guilt struck him then, and he knew he had to gain some semblance of control over the situation, if only to put Yorda at ease. He turned to face the three, opening his mouth to speak up, but what the leader said next silenced and shook him all at once.

"We'll take 'em to Odarith, but he won't like it. He's busy enough preparing for the king's arrival."

…..........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Well, no translation notes today folks.

I want to apologize on three accounts. First, for taking so long to finally update. Second, for the update to be so short and third, to end it on another cliffhanger. But, at the very least, I am once more getting in the swing of things, and hopefully this time you won't have to wait half as long for the next chapter as you had to do for this one. Well, if you have any other comments or thoughts feel free to review, I'll be sure to reply as quickly as I can. Again, sorry for the incredibly long wait and the shortness of the chapter.

I hoped you all are liking it, regardless.

Have a great day!


	7. The Three Sisters

Distant Hills

_You Were There_

_Countless Visions: They Haunt Me in My Sleep_

"The king?" Ico exclaimed. "The king of Dalazar?"

The moment that he said the words, he already regretted them. The three women – what were their names again? – the three women were looking at him incredulously, eyes slowly blinking. But heaviest of all was Yorda's gaze, piercing into the back of his head. The young boy could not bring himself to turn around, lest he see the expression on her face – whatever it may be.

His anxiety was stalled, for a moment, by the leader's, the old crone's, words, "Well, I'll be," She began. Her voice sounding like all the elderly did, holding the scrapping of rumbling boulders in her pitch. "So you _can _speak our tongue, boy. Ya shoulda done it sooner."

The one to her left, Claudina or Claudine, leaned back, clasping her hands to her hips as she eyed him. "Aye," Claudine agreed. "But he's a foreigner to be sure. His accent is as thick as the heat in the desert on a summer's day."

There was something to her tone that Ico felt was familiar and then, all of a sudden, he remembered it. On his way here from his village from the far south, only once had the armored men halted on their journey. It was to rest in a small town, whose name Ico could not grasp at the moment, that lay just southeast of here, past a dense forest.

It was there, and there alone, that his captors had taken off their armor for the first and last time. Not that Ico had the chance to see it, with his wrist and ankles bound and chained to the horses in the inn's stable. There he had spent the night, huddled against the flank of one of the horses as the village men made merry in the tavern with the locals.

There was a crack along the side of the wall, and Ico took turns peering through it and out into the street, trying to relieve his boredom. The tavern itself, he found, seemed no different then the one back in Morisiwa, save for one crucial deviation. In Morisiwa, when one drank they did so in silence, when one ate they did so in silence, and if they were to pit wagers and test the dice, they did so with the sobriety and focus of mind to better channel in the colossi's might.

In this tavern, the way Ico could know where the men were sitting, though he could see them, was to look for the void in the noise. On that day, Ico found out that Dalazarians were _loud_ and more then that – bawdy. They sung songs, danced dances, and played games of strength and wit, the greatest of which were the word wars.

Now, at this point of time, staring up at the woman named Claudina or Claudine, Ico suddenly found himself in one.

Ico found the words leaving his tongue before he could think them, let alone stop them. "Yours ain't no better, Miss. I've heard some hounds' barks that sounded prettier." Ico saw the affects of his words almost immediately. A glint, perhaps a flash, passed behind Claudine's eyes as the leader and the other one … Maura? … shared a glance with each other. Before he could blink Claudine stepped forward, hands still on her hips, and bent her head down – shrinking the distance between them.

"Ain't that something, the hick boy from the backwash end of nowhere has a clever tongue. Color me surprised." The words were harsher this time – with more of a bite to them, as if she was truly angry. But Ico saw the corner of her lip twitch in either a smirk or a smile – that gave her away.

So, Ico went on, ignoring Yorda's hiss of 'Ico' in his ear and the way she gripped his hand. Though he was sure to give a quick squeeze, and literally felt some of the tension leave her. _Gotta remember to try to explain what's going on to her later, _he thought as he said, "Gladly, the collosi only know when the last time you got any sun. You're all about as white as the far end of a goat's ass."

He waited for the retort – but none came.

All three of the women stilled. Immediately, a wave of doubt and fear crashed into him, and, as if in reply, Yorda's grip tightened and became iron. _Did I go too far_? Ico wondered frantically, the feel of Yorda's hand not enough to fully push away his anxiety. _But I thought for sure – _

Then all three women broke out laughing.

"Not bad, kid," Said the one on the right, the one with the auburn hair, Maura he was fairly sure, after wiping away a tear. Then, with a smile, "Not bad at all! What's your name?"

Ico hesitated then, not sure if he should answer truthfully or not. The people of Dalazar were no more tolerant of his kind then those in his village were, and there was a chance, however slim, that someone might recognize him, though he had only been in this land for a couple of days. And who knew what would happen if he dropped _Yorda's_ name. It did not escape him that his tomb and Yorda's cage, as terrifying as the Castle was, was also a marvel of architecture and magic, and the fact it dwelt in the heart of the Kingdom of Dalazar, where the king's castle existed – elsewhere, did not bode well.

Apparently, Ico had paused a moment too long – or perhaps she had simply sensed his discomfort. Regardless, the elderly women, the Mother, rose her hand to stall him, stating, "Be at ease, you need not give us your names if you do not want to. Either you will be be receiving new ones or you will be on your way, so it does not matter in the long run."

Ico blinked, slowly processing this, he licked his lips before asking, "We'll be receiving … new names?"

The Mother nodded, her thin shawled shoulders bobbing as she did. "Aye," She began, "It is our custom. All foreigners who come to live permanently under the shadow of the walls of Salazim, our city, are christened with new names, as part of a rather harrowing process."

Ico let the words sink in, while he thought, _Salazim. Yes, I've heard of it. It is one of the largest cities in Dalazar. Are they really going to bring __**me**__ to a __**city**__? _The thought felt too surreal to be real, even after everything the young boy went through. But the oddness of the situation was pushed aside when something else occurred to him, and he could not keep silent about it.

"Wait." He said, peering at the Mother, "What makes you think we wish to settle in Salazim at all?"

Now it was her turn to peer at him, but her gaze was far different than his. It was more piercing, as if looking into the depths of his heart and scrutinizing all that lay with in only to find it lacking. Her voice, when she spoke, was cool, controlled and collected, yet he felt reprimanded all the same. "Are you to tell me that the two of you are trapped out in this wilderness of your own will? You, one who has yet to reach manhood, and she, who is but a wisp of a girl? Please, child. It is clear: You are homeless."

Never before had Ico so completely froze in on himself. His body seemed to just cave in and shut down. And all of it due to a simple word, so innocent sounding, so obviously true – in retrospect, yet potent all the same.

_Home … less. _

It was then that he felt Yorda tugging at his sleeve, as she leaned forward and whispered into his ear, "Era troit lan ellollan? Elinm vist tuea?" Even at the best of times, Ico still had to put effort into trying to interpret and understand what Yorda was trying to say to him. So now, dazed as he was by the sudden revelation, Yorda's words just washed over him – he barely even registered that she had even spoken up at all.

Fear. Ico felt a great deal of fear then – granted, it was just a shadow, a pathetic doppelganger of the fear that had all but smothered him in the Castle, the fear he had learned to quench and conquer or else face the gripping claws of death – yet it was fear all the same. So, with a flexing of his will Ico shoved the fear aside to approach the situation rationally.

The old crone, the Mother, was completely right. Yorda's home had crumbled into the sea but a couple days ago, and the people and place of his birth believed him to be dead and even if he was foolish enough to return he would not be welcomed there. In fact, Ico was fairly sure that they would try to kill him.

Literally, neither of them had homes to return to.

In Morisiwa, there were names for such people. They were the kalandras, holders of the colosi's ire, they were the polaconzis, having been born under a ill omen star. In other lands, they were known as wanders, travelers, vagabonds and outcasts. Ones who moved, from one village to the next, one city to the next, one country to the next – never resting for long for no one land was ever there's. It was a ill fate indeed to be homeless.

Not as ill as the fate of the Horned Ones, but ill all the same.

But what worried Ico the most was the danger involved with being a wanderer. Wanderers were often attacked by roving bands of bandits and savages, faced starvation and most terrible of all, were carriers of deadly diseases. For this reasons foreigners were not welcome in settlements, for be it a act of nature or sorcery death followed the wanderer's path. If they were lucky, the people of Salazim would hold the sacred pledge of hospitality to strangers and at least give them a meal and a place to rest for the night before sending them on their way. If they were unlucky …

No. Salazim did not seem to be a place that was overly hostile to outsiders. The Mother even mentioned that other foreigners had come to live permanently there, and while Ico could guess that the foreigners were either men of great status and wealth and therefore were able to overcome the stigma that came with their presence there, it was possible that the same might happen to him and Yorda. But the question remained – did he even want the two of them to live there? Ico knew from experience that the Dalazarians were no more tolerant of his kind then the villagers of Morisiwa. If his secret ever got out he could not guarantee their safety. Then again, was that not true for every place? Where could he possibly go and find the Horned Ones not fear and reviled?

_Perhaps the only way for Yorda to be truly safe is for her to cease associating with me altogether. _

Luckily, that train of thought was pushed aside entirely when Yorda herself suddenly moved, shifting in front of him so she could stare down the three women before her. When she spoke out, her lyrical tongue possessed a harsher bite to it. There was accusation in her tone – of what Ico could hardly guess. "Era troit tuean troin vinti hon? Hoz lagato co asinto!"

As expected, all three of the women were thrown off guard by that. Though while Claudine and Maura just seemed confused, there was a flash of some other unidentifiable emotion behind the Mother's eyes. But Ico soon understood when while Claudine was apologizing to Yorda for not understanding her, the Mother asked him, "Can she not speak a word of Gralion, the common tongue?"

A cold chill passed through him, as Ico meekly nodded, saying, "Aye. Though I am trying to teach her." Inwardly he was thinking. _This is bad. Yorda and I look different enough already, even with the matching turbans, but now that they know we speak different languages it'll be fairly easy for them to figure out that we are not truly from the same land. _Thinking quickly, he continued, "In our land she was considered holy and was left separate from us commoners. She was not allowed to learn the Common Tongue or even step outside."

Right then he could sense the Mother's suspicion leaving her as she compared the Yorda before her to the description he gave. It must have been clear, to all three of them, that Yorda possessed a regal bearing and had so since birth. It was not that farfetched to think at all that she would be held as holy among her people. Also, her paleness could only be explained by many years of living with the lack of sunlight – just like his bronze skin showed many years of hard labor under the sun. Yes, upon birth anyone with eyes would be able to tell that Yorda's existence was a holy, a _special_ one.

Just like they knew, upon sight of his horns, that he held the curse of Dormin.

But Ico was stirred from his thoughts when Maura, the one with auburn hair, murmured, "To think, a shrine maiden and a peasant boy lost in the old forest. There's a tale there to be sure." The one who he had waged the war of wits with, Claudine, nodded at Maura's words, while the Mother merely stood there – impassive as ever.

Meanwhile, Ico was thinking, _Shrine maiden? What is that?_ It must be a title that is exclusive to Salazim.

The Mother then spoke, eying the auburn hair one as she did, "Aye. But if the boy was unwilling to give us their names, then there is little hope of getting his tale," The Mother looked on him after that, her eyes softening. "But that does not mean we must do the same, and an introduction has been far overdue. I am Klarshaw, Mother of the Salazim Spearsouls, this is Claudine Shadeheart, my First and Maura Closedheart, my Third." She gestured to both women as she said this, before sweeping her hand towards the dirt trail they had come up on. "Come and meet the rest of my spear sisters, so that we can eat, drink rest and then be on our way."

Ico was about to reply when Yorda stepped forward. Immediately, Ico was struck by a sense of foreboding and hurriedly reached a hand to halt Yorda in her tracks. But by then Yorda had stepped too far out, and his hand only grasped at empty air. It was already too late. There, halfway between Ico and the three women, Yorda silently clasped her hands behind her back.

And then _bowed_.

It was then that Ico realized two things. First, that Yorda had followed the conversation _far _better than he thought she did and that she not only realized what was just spoken was a greeting but was about to attempt one of her own, despite the obvious language barrier between them. Secondly, the way Yorda had been taught to greet others was utterly different than the way Ico (or anyone else he knew) made introductions. Her bow alone, a movement that embodied gracefulness, displayed that clearly.

If he had been in his right mind, the moment Yorda straightened would be when he acted, but, at that moment, he was as bewitched as the Spearsouls. Only he had less of an excuse for his enthralling. They, being strangers to her, must find Yorda perplexing and peculiar, but he should be use to her by now. Yet still, she found ways to stun him and leave him dazed. So, in silence, he stayed.

And so, Yorda continued on.

"Unwan co erune vinti barra tuea, Claudine Shadeheart, my First," As she said this, she gestured to the woman in question with a flicker of her wrist and fingers, seemingly drawing out a symbol in the air. Claudine herself merely stared at her with great unease, seemingly unnerved by her sudden switch from her native tongue to Gralion. Yet Yorda paid no heed to this, as she, with her other hand, made another complex maneuver at Maura, stating, "Yui tuea, Maura Closedheart, my Third," Finally, she brought her hands together and held them out to the Mother. "Yui tuea verta, narint tra, Klarshaw, Mother of the Salazim Spearsouls. Wentha melin tuear credi." She swept her hands behind her back and bowed once more.

That last sentence sounded different to Ico then the ones before it. It had a repetitive quality to it, as if the words had been ingrained into her mind and onto her tongue long ago. But why would _She_ teach that to Yorda? What use was there in teaching a formal greeting to one who would always be caged in a tower? But before he could pursue the thought farther, Yorda straightened once more, and Ico realized, belatedly, that she was still not done.

Locking her gaze on the other women, Yorda went on, "Yodillo Yorda, Traimalle eranchas, didon os wa ezaz Fediona os Alador, Vivian os Kordal yui orrian os wa Fedios yui Gedias os xal asido wa wandare os Morridane, wasta der indoral." Then, with a outstretched hand, palm out, towards the young boy, "Yui dolina co sasiat, yui sasiotto os co berrata, Ico."

The boy in question had frozen over the moment he heard Yorda state her own name, and, upon hearing her say his, a deep wave of fear crashed over him, as he wrung his sweaty hands together, staring at the ground – for he did not dare meet the eyes of any of the three women. His only hope was that in the tide wave of incomprehensible words, that his and Yorda's names would be lost within it. But Yorda herself saw to the death of that hope, by clearly emphasizing their names along with the hand gestures. So, instead, he stood there, a mantra chanting in his head.

_This is bad. They might recognize me. This is bad. They might recognize me. _

This time it was Yorda that brought him back to his senses by grabbing his hand and looking down at him worriedly. She did not need to speak. Instead, he tried to relieve her worry. "Fine. I am fine." He lied. Ico could tell that she clearly did not buy it, for her eyes took on an iron edge again.

It seemed as if the Mother had also turned to stone. Her words were sharp. "Well then, Ico, Yorda, it is a pleasure. Maura, Claudine please guide young Yorda tot he other sisters." _That _caught Ico's attention, but before he could ask why he was not going with her or demand to go with her (how could she possibly be separated from him?) the Mother turned to him with a smile that was hollow. "Do not worry. You'll see her shortly. I just wish to speak to you privately for a moment."

Ico's stomach plummeted. He could tell from the iron in her eyes and the finality in her tone that he had no choice.

A second later Claudine and Maura, with Yorda nestled between them, began to walk down the dirt path. Yorda was desperately looking over her shoulder at him – sheer, blind panic covering her features. Ico nodded weakly and gave her a hollow smile of his own. Then, in the span of a eye blink, all three of them were out of sight.

In the span of another, Ico had a knife at his throat.

Klarshaw, Mother of the Salazim Spearsouls, had Ico up in the air with a rigid grip around his neck with one hand and had a dagger, the same dagger from earlier probably, under his chin with the other. He could see the iron in her eyes up close now, and realized that it was nothing, nothing at _all_, like the strange strength that sometimes imbues Yorda, but rather it was a cold, ruthless thing. That iron in her soul waged with a intense fire as she spat –

"Explain yourself, _Horned One._"

…...

Translation:

Era troit lan ellollan? Elinm vist tuea? : What did they say? Are you alright?

Era troit tuean troin vinti hon? Hoz lagato co asinto! : What did you do to him? He has left me again!

Unwan co erune vinti barra tuea, Claudine Shadeheart, my First : It's my honor to meet you, Claudine Shadeheart, my First

Yui tuea, Maura Closedheart, my Third : And you, Maura Closedheart, my Third.

Yui tuea verta, narint tra, Klarshaw, Mother of the Salazim Spearsouls. Wentha melin tuear credi. : And lastly you, great host, Klarshaw, Mother of the Salazim Spearsouls. Blessed be all your days.

Yodillo Yorda, Traimalle eranchas, didon os wa ezaz Fediona os Alador, Vivian os Kordal yui orrian os wa Fedios yui Gedias os xal asido wa wandare os Morridane, wasta der indoral. : My name is Yorda, child of Traimalle, who is heir of the fallen Kingdom of Alador, Priestess of Kordal and descendant of the Kings and Queens of old from the land of Morridane, which is now forsaken.

Yui dolina co sasiat, yui sasiotto os co berrata, Ico: And this is my companion, and friend of my heart, Ico.

Pronunciation / Vocabulary:

Dalazar : Dal – a – sar. The Kingdom that Ico and Yorda are currently in.

Salazim : Sal – a – sim. The nearest city.

Kalandras : Kal – lan – dras. A Morisiwan name for wanderers/strangers. Means "The Colosi's Ire."

Polaconzis : Pole – la – con – zis. A Morisiwan name for wanderers/strangers. Means "Born under a Ill Star."

Gralion : Growl – lion (Yes, that was deliberate). The most commonly spoken language, called the Common Tongue, in Dalaza and Morisiwa.

Klarshaw : Claw – shawl. The Mother of the Salazim Soulspears.

Alador: Ala – door. A fallen Kingdom.

Kordal : Core – doll. The Thing (God, Goddess, Spirit) that Traimalle was the Priestess of.

Morridane : Moor – e – dane. A forsaken Kingdom, implied to exist before Alador.

Boy … uh … where to begin?

First off, for old readers, I know, by now, you must be right around _sick_ of my cliffhangers. I know its really bad, especially considering how long it takes me to update, but honestly, I just can't help myself. They seem to be the most natural place to end a chapter. I'll work on toning it down a bit, though.

One of the first things I feel the need to clarify is on just how quickly Yorda picked up the women's names in this chapter. I know I hinted at her odd trait of being able to not only remember Ico's words after only hearing it once but also being able to pronounce the words fluently prior to this chapter, but I never openly used it for such a significant plot event before. So, I'm placing a very clear limitation: the fact that she can only _parrot_ words. Hence, her adding the "my First" and "my Third" to Claudine's and Maura's names, even though, in context, it's clear that their _ranking_ not their names. Still, though, I'm afraid it might be too much too soon. Please give me your thoughts on it.

Also, with the large influx of words that I'm making up, I decided on adding a pronunciation / vocabulary section. But what I am curious about is whether I should add Yorda's language to it also, which would be quite a effort. If I do end up doing it, I would probably have a single chapter devoted to vocabulary, pronunciation and translations of Yorda's dialogue.

Well, that's about it. If any other questions come to mind or you have any suggestions, feel free to review. It'll make my day!

I hoped you enjoyed the chapter!


	8. The Stumps

Distant Hills

_You Were There_

_Though Forgotten All Promises We Keep_

The knife was sharp against his neck.

That's what told him that this was a matter of life or death. That, given a wrong word, a wrong move, a wrong breath, Ico's life-blood would be spilled today. If it was a dull or a blunt knife, then maybe he'd have more room to work with. But the knife's honed edge and the crone's cold eyes killed any chance of an easy escape.

He measured the Mother before him carefully – or as carefully as he could when he was this scared. Ico watched as her beady eyes narrowed and as the wrinkles became hard lines and panes. Slowly, as if pulling the words out from deep within, she growled, "Well?"

Well, feigning ignorance had always worked for him in the past, "I don't know – "

There was a spike of pain and Ico felt a drop of blood dribble down his neck. _But not this time, I suppose. _

The Mother practically hissed her next words out as her grip on him tightened. "You can't put the wool over _my_ eyes, brat. I know you." As she said this, she leaned closer – her face hovering over his, and with every word she spoke next a weight formed and settled in the pit of his stomach, for he knew his fate was sealed.

"Eight days ago, a young horned boy named Ico came to this kingdom as a offering to the Accursed One. On the fourth, word reached me that the men who had brought him had left. But by the following day, the impossible happened, and the Desindra fell. Now, three days later, a boy, also named Ico, is found within the shadow of the Desindra and you expect me to believe they are not one and the same?" For the first time, the Mother let go of his throat and instead raised her hand to grab a hold of the cloth around his head and then tug – hard – so that his head jerked up. "You expect," She said softly, "me to believe that under this makeshift turban there isn't a pair of horns?"

And, just like that, he was saved.

"Yes."

Ico had looked up at her when he said this, trying not to let his relief or triumph show, yet still claim it with unerring confidence. He immediately saw her thrown off guard, and took advantage of that. "I have no horns." It was the truth, she could hear it in his tone, even if she did not believe it. "Feel free to search my scalp with your hands, if you do not believe me. However, I will not permit you to take it off."

That riled the woman up, Ico could tell. For the blade bit deeper, and it took all his self control not to flinch, both at the pain and the look on the Mother's face. "You will not permit?" Incredulous, then, seething, "You will not permit! Brat. Do you not realize the position you are in?"

Something odd occurred to Ico then. At that moment, looking at the woman's face, he saw a shadow move behind her. Flicker into life behind her. And, all of a sudden, he knew what it was. It was _her_. The Queen. Yorda's mother. Traimalle. Though, it was not her in the flesh, but rather the shade of her, imposed over the knife wielder before him. And, just like that, the situation was revealed to be what it was: a farce. For this woman was old, the blade in her soul was rusted, her skin was sagging, her eyes sunken, her wrinkles engraved upon her like the words on a effigy, and, all these spoke to him, like the words on a parchment, that Klarshaw, the Mother of the Salazim Soulspears was very, very mortal.

If, before, the Mother's words were slow and cool like a forest's stream. Then Ico's were as cold and cutting as a blizzard breeze.

"It is you who do not understand the position you are in. You have shamed me once by a false accusation, will you shame me again by stripping me of my pride?"

The look on the Mother's face then was strange. There was surprise, certainly, in fact, there was such a abundance of surprise that she nearly seemed unhinged by it. But there was more than just that, there was something deeper in her gaze, as if she was Seeing something that Ico could not, for then the Mother looked at him, looked into his eyes that held the reflection of the Queen, and, silently, relented. The old woman turned her head and spat, "Fine." Then she turned back to him, her eyes dark. "Once I find the horns you'll be dead regardless."

Ico nodded, impassive, "Aye. If they are there."

The woman dropped her blade, but did not sheath it. She rose her hand, brought her fingers to his skull, and began to roam. Almost immediately her eyes widened, "There's something here." But then confusion, thick and strong, "But it isn't a horn." The words sounded painful to admit. Perhaps almost as painful to her pride as it was painful to his heart, for with a single touch to his left stub put him on edge, making him grind his teeth. But he had to bear it, had to hide the striking pain.

So, calmly, Ico said, "Aye. It isn't. And there's another one on the other side."

The Mother's hand trailed across his head. It was fine, until she reached the right stub, then her touch was poison to him, dripping down the back of his skull, through his spine to finally stab at his frantic heart. Ico bite his lip. Then the Mother pressed a bit harder, her eyes widening when she felt the dampness of blood.

Ico could not mask this.

The instant that Karlshaw, the Mother of the Salazim Spearsouls, pressed on his right stub, a bolt of pain, vast and immeasurable, shot down through him – causing his core to quake and stirring the foundation of his being. It was then that Ico let out a terrible screech – one that poured out and rode out of him like a tide – before his knees buckled.

Surprisingly, the Mother swiftly caught him, perhaps there was even a bout of alarm that flashed across her face – there and gone. The next moment, she was in control and commanding. "Boy." When he didn't respond she shook him, "Boy! Why didn't you tell me you were injured?"

At that, Ico smirked, "Weren't you trying to kill me a second ago?"

The Mother didn't take kindly to that, but her flash of a frown was hidden with another question, "Brat, do you mind tellin' me why ya got two bruises the size of walnuts on ya skull?" Luckily, Ico was saved from answering and Klarshaw was distracted from seeing the boy's relief – filled face (For all he could think at that moment was _She fell for it. She actually fell for it!_) by a ringing shout.

"Ico!"

The boy pulled away from the elderly crone and watched as a figure rapidly formed out of the beaten bath. _Yorda?_ Ico thought incredulously as the young waif of a girl came rushing at him, before slowing down and stumbling to a stop, bending over, clutching her sides, and heavily panting. With that, Ico's surprise doubled. _She can get tired?_

But that thought was shoved aside as Yorda glanced up with iron cemented in her gaze.

For it was then that she grabbed his shoulders, her eyes (now startlingly and unnervingly fierce) scanning over his body – searching for, Ico abruptly realized, any imperfections or anomalies. Suddenly, Ico remembered a time when a traveling merchant came to Morisiwa. He had inspected the possessions of the townspeople with a critical eye – glaring at the craftsmanship of their cloths and pottery, jewelry and fine linen, the shafts of their bows and the fletching of their arrows – as if it all belonged to him or soon would be.

That is how Ico felt then, like a sheep being evaluated by that same merchant for the quality of its wool, while a wolf (in the form of the suspicious eye of Klarshaw) lied in wait in the shaggy underbrush. And while he knew that she was just being overprotective of him (a concept, in of itself, that was difficult to grasp) Ico nevertheless felt uneasy under her gaze, for he could not help but feel a shift between them, as if something had changed while he had been unawares.

Wait. Ico blinked. Yorda was speaking to him.

"...elimn? Wonlth vist tuea? Hiya troit tuea jarn, Ico?" Ico knew that tone. She was worried again. But there was something different this time – something that had not been there before – a sort of … viciousness. Just as Ico opened his mouth to respond, Yorda's eyes centered on a small thing – something so small that Ico had forgotten it entirely – the nick on his neck. Then she whirled around to face the Mother, and spotted something else.

The knife in Klarshaw's hand.

The _bloodstained_ knife.

_Oh no_.

Ico could do nothing but watch as the iron in Yorda's eyes expanded out, being boiled and molded in a fiery rage. Before he could do so much as blink, Yorda lashed out – as swift as a sword strike. The old woman tumbled, her heels kicking up and her dress fluttering around her. Yorda had the Mother pinned, and rose her arm back and tightened her hand into a fist.

That was when Ico acted, and he was not the only one.

Ico jumped up behind her and grabbed Yorda from underneath the armpits, prying her away from the downed woman. At the same time Claudine, who had gotten between them, pushed at Yorda, while Maura (where had _they_ come from?) eased the leader of the Spearsouls to her feet. While Yorda was shooting out a rapid string of words, so quickly Ico could catch nothing save a hefty bout of anger fueling them, Maura softly whispered, "Forgive us, Mother mine, the child ran before we could stop her, slippery as a eel, nay, as slippery as Hydrus herself, she is."

Weakly, still recovering, Klarshaw looked at the wiggling form of Yorda in Ico's arms and muttered, "I see."

Meanwhile, Ico was just staring at Yorda as if he was seeing her for the first time – so stunned was he that he didn't seem to care about how closely he was holding her. _She has changed._ At the Castle, whenever he had fought against the Shadows, she had just sat there – passive, serene, untouched and unconcerned about the world around her. Only deigning to stand when it was done and allowing Ico to lead her wherever he will. Now, she snapped at a woman for giving him the lightest of wounds. Then, something new, _No. has she changed? Or did I never truly know her to begin with?_ His grip weakened.

At that moment, Yorda broke free and brought down her ire on him, "Ico! Hiyatroit tuea – " Then, eyes widening, she stopped and finished with a murmur, "duencon." A pause. "Ico?"

Ico turned away from her, not able, or willing, to look at her at the moment. But at the same time, he said, "I'm fine." He could practically _feel_ her about to object, and could not help but wonder if she has always been this obstinate. So he shot her a look over his shoulder. "I'm _fine. _Really." Swallowing down his pain at the hurt look on his face, he turned to the three women and inclined his head, "Pardon me for the commotion."

Composure restored, Klarshaw spoke while dusting herself off. "You heard him. All's fine and dandy. Now let's go before the sisters start a riot in our absence." And, with that, the Mother moved towards the dirt path that cut into the forest. She took the pace of a brisk walk – one that nearly demanded all to follow suit or be left behind. Unhesitatingly, Maura followed after her, but Claudine paused to give the two a fond yet exasperated look.

"You kids sure like to holler and cause a ruckus, don'tcha?" And with that, she followed Maura and was gone.

A silence came then. No. That's not quite right. A silence had already been there for a while – a silence between the two of them, and now that the others were gone, it flourished and grew – the tension mounting with it. Yorda was the first to act, asking the same thing as before, but more softly this time – meekly.

"Ico?"

Before Ico turned to look at her – truly look at her – he brought out his best smile, trying to get it to fit in place on his face. Because he had to. Because he had to be strong. For her. That uncompromising desire had been engraved in him, he knew not how to get rid of it. Yet when Ico turned to face her, Yorda did not look reassured by his smile. If anything, she appeared more worried.

"Everything is fine, Yorda." When she still appeared unconvinced, he grasped a hold of her hand. The familiar gesture made her instinctively relax, and Ico was proud that he managed to keep a straight face, even though he felt as if his _wrongness_ was leaking out of him and staining her with every second they stayed connected.

"Fine?" She parroted, her accent flawless as always, trying to convince herself.

"Yeah, fine." Ico said, his soothing voice pleading for belief, from both her and himself.

As Ico looked into her eyes, he still felt as if she was something new to him. But some parts of the old Yorda, or, more accurately, his old perception of Yorda held true, and that was what let him see, as clear as day, what the heart of the problem was.

"It's not your fault, Yorda." For once Yorda was the one who was completely stumped. Ico had never used these sort of words before. He had to put it in another way. "Fault is, uh, its like blame. It's when something bad happens because of what you do." _That_ got through, but if the returning hurt was any indication she got the exact opposite of the message he was trying to give.

Quickly, Ico let go of her hand and instead grabbed her forearms, pulling her closer so that he could peer more deeply into her eyes. "But it's not that way." He said it very firmly – trying to get his point across, trying to will his thoughts to her, to get understanding. "You're _not_ at fault. That had nothing to do with you."

"Not?" She tested the word slowly, as if tasting it on her tongue.

Ico was surprised by her perfect pronunciation, once again, but only nodded. They had long ago established what a nod meant – something shared between their languages. With it all settled, Ico took her hand again, following after the three women. Immediately, he met with resistance. _There's still more?_

A single look told him what the problem was. There was a clear – cut expression of distrust on her face right now. _This I can relate to. _"I know, I don't trust them either, but they won't attack me again," _I think,_ he mentally added. Again, she didn't quite get it, so, with a squeeze of her hand, Ico went on. "You don't have to worry. I'm not going anywhere. I'm here to stay."

That perked her up, "Stay?"

Suddenly, Ico remembered how Yorda knew that word. He had used it back in the Castle, along with the word, "Come on", repeatedly. _Come on, stay, no and fine, cover most of the basics, don't they_? Then, seeing Yorda's expectation, Ico amended, _Them and one more word. _"Yes," He said with a nod.

And Yorda smiled.

Up above, on the dirt trail, Klarshaw, the Mother of the Salazim Spearsouls, came to a sharp and complete halt. The suddenness of it was nearly enough to make her third, Maura, crash into her back. "Mother mine?" Maura question, seeing the frozen features on the Mother's face. "Is something troubling you?"

"No. Nothing." Came her cool, chipped reply as she went on her way.

Maura paused, looking at the thing that had captivated the Mother so, before continuing on.

What is so intriguing about a tree stump? She had to wonder.

…...

Translation:

...elimn? Wonlth vist tuea? Hiya troit tuea jarn, Ico? : … alright? Are you hurt? Why did you scream, Ico?

Ico! Hiyatroit tuea – duencon? : Ico! Why did you – stop me?

The Desindra: The Mother's name for the Castle.

Hydrus: The seventh colossus.

Consider this a early Christmas present. That or a very, very belated update. Your pick.

First off, I want to thank everyone who has reviewed, and I want to welcome all my new readers. I truly hope you've enjoyed this story so far. Your comments are always encouraging and it helps me find the drive to continue on. Secondly, and far more importantly, I have to apologize on two accounts. The first is for taking so long to update, again, but the next is for leaving it off on a cliffhanger, again, albeit a bit of a more mild one. I know I have a nasty habit of doing this, and, coupled with the fact my updates are slow, this must be a real turn off for you guys. I promise I'll work on coming to a more satisfying end to the chapter next time.

Anyway, since I probably won't be updating here again for a while, I hope you all enjoy and I wish you a happy holidays!


	9. The City of Sandstone

Distant Hills

_Slaves to our destiny_

_I recall a melody_

He could feel the stares.

How different were the two! The Mother's eyes glared back at him from up ahead on the road, as if, by sheer force of will, she could pry apart their contents and see the secrets that lay within. Or, perhaps, she was being more subtle than that, did she give but a single darting glance, piercing yet resolute? Ico wouldn't know. He was … sensitive, to such things. He could always tell when one was looking at him, even if they were not in the vicinity. He simply always could. But, more than that, he knew the types of the looks, the feel of the looks, and the feeling that Klarshaw was giving him right now was a familiar one indeed, bitterly familiar, but familiar nonetheless.

Which, of course, gave a stark contrast to the gaze of Yorda by his side.

The young girl was also casting glances his way, but they were different, indeed, they were different from any sort of stare he had ever come across, yet so normal for her, that Ico was able to know instantly what it meant. _The Mother is still suspicious and Yorda is still concerned, has anything truly been solved then? _

Actually, there was something that had been resolved, at least, to him.

He know knew, without a doubt, that these women were _dangerous_.

At first, he had been hesitant. He had seen their weapons and their aggressive stances upon their first meeting, but, a part of him, simply could not accept it. It simply went against anything he had seen before, or, for that matter, ever heard. But the Mother of the Salazim Spearsouls had made her point, and Ico felt it as clearly as the cut on his neck. And, if that hadn't been enough, their way of walking, sure and steady, despite the uneven terrain of the forest depths, a easy grace of a predator, of athletic prowess, would be enough to chip away even the most closed-minded of men. These women were deadly.

But, as if to dissuade this very notion from forming, one of the three Sisters, the one he had joked with earlier, Claudine Ico believed her name was, halted in her place, letting the two other women continue going on, and falling alongside the two children. When she looked at the both of them, a brilliant grin was in place on her features, and her tone was gentle as she spoke, "Well, we're going to be coming up to them, and there's a couple of things you need to know."

He knew it. Ico could not shake off his foreboding as he timidly asked, "What sort of things?"

"First, that the both of you are going to have to wait with me for a moment. Both Mother mine and the third are going to explain the situation with the sisters. Second, once we regroup, we'll be leaving immediately for Salazim, since we are already behind schedule due to your appearance. You can take a quick bite from our rations and a drink from Erisdan Lake," That threw Ico off, they called that paltry lagoon a _lake_? But what she said next dropped him into a whole 'nother conundrum all together. "But you both are going to have to fill up jars and take them with us, we have spares that – "

"No."

Now it was Claudine Shadeheart's, the First of the Salazim Spearsouls, to be thrown off guard by a mere boy. The honed blade of her eyes could teach the iron of Yorda's a couple lessons. "Come again, child?" She prodded.

"If I must, I will carry both jars, Yorda need not do it." At that, he could see Claudine's eyes lighten, and that mood that was on her on their first meeting, a expression of gaiety, descended upon her. He saw her crack a smile and speak up, (just as, by his side, Yorda piped, "Elinm tuean elliacon?")

"Ah! Mighty sweet aya, ya got the northerners style ya do, but I think the lass can handle it, she's a big girl now." The condescending tone caused a scowl to mar Ico's face, which, of course, made Claudine's grin all the larger. Another war of words. If Ico had been in a better mood, he'd might have obliged her, but his nerves were too wracked up after his near death experience, and the idea of the looming threat poised by the elderly woman, whose shadow, though she had just now gone over the bend and was out of sight, still haunted him dissuaded anything of such playful mirth. So, in reply, Ico merely snorted, then nodded, and, making sure Yorda's hand was still in his, walked further ahead, leaving a slightly confused Claudine in his wake to peer (a third stare, all he needed was for Maura to do it and then he'd have his fill!) at the back of his head.

He didn't get very far. Before the boy with young formerly horned boy could take even a handful of steps, there was a pressure against his arm. Looking behind him, he saw Yorda adamantly dig her heels into the dirt. "Yorda?" He inquired, but whatever other words he would have said died out when the girl in question glared up at him. _She's angry again._ Just then, the scene from before, Yorda lunging at the Mother struck him with a violent force and, just as quickly, Ico was in a mild state of panic. Before he knew it, more words were flooding out of his mouth, "I'm sorry, I don't know what I did, but I – "

But, Yorda interrupted him, speaking softly yet firmly in her melodious tongue, "Tuea lagoto co. Tuea corilla co. Era troit tuean ellocon?"

Ico was lost. All he could tell was that Yorda wanted something from him – words. A explanation, perhaps? The only thing he could think of was the con – Oh! They had been talking about her. Of course, she'd want to know what they were saying. Ico bit his lip. How exactly was he suppose to get this across to her? It was one thing to convey that everything was fine or that he was not hurt, but another thing entirely to get across the concept of carrying a jug of water for a certain amount of distance. Then again, she had seen the jugs as well, when she had seen the people (then again, she had been a bit thrown off when she had seen the people themselves). Maybe he could –

Apparently, he had been taking too long, for Yorda's eyes narrowed as she said, somewhat frustratedly, "Ico."

"Well. Well. Is this a lover's spat I'm seeing?"

"What?" Ico exclaimed, as he spun around. There was Claudine, caught up during the small pause. The boy's face colored, both out of ire and embarrassment. "No!" He was going to go on, falling on his fake story of Yorda being holy to him (shrine maiden, he was about to say even, for added weight) and how he wouldn't dare … when Claudine's mischievous grin hit him in full force and he felt like a fool. _She was just toying with me_. Instantly, he was calmed as he let out a slow sigh, "She simply wanted to know what we were saying about her."

The woman's eyes lit up, "Oh, if that's the case, go ahead. But make it short, the Mother and the Third are talking to the spear sisters as we speak." For, indeed, Ico's fine hearing could just then make out the sounds of voices around the bend. So, just as the woman walked ahead of them to lean against a nearby tree, so did Ico turn around to face Yorda. Abruptly, the boy with stubs was struck by her appearance. She was standing there, arms crossed, fingers tapping against her soft skin, and her previous look of frustration now open annoyance as she looked at him. Again, Ico simply understood. _She's mad at being left out of the conversation._

Well, it was time to fix that … or try to, at least. Here goes nothing, "Uh, Yorda, do you remember the jars?" She just gave him a blank look of incomprehension. _Of course it wouldn't be that easy._ "Well, um, those women had 'em, they were kinda shaped like this," At that, he made a wavy motion with his hands, to show the curved bottom of the clay jars. While Yorda still looked confused, all of her past ire was completely gone from her face, as she eagerly mimicked his gestures. "Yes, like that!" Ico stated, and was about to go on when he heard a heartfelt laugh tickle the air around him. Swinging his head around, Ico saw Claudine, still leaning against the tree, give him her biggest smile yet. Once more, his face turned red.

_Just what I need now, to be self conscious. _

While Ico was looking at the ground, Yorda was looking at him, with her eyes narrowed, and, after a stolen glance at Claudine (who cockily waved) her gaze hardened and her brow furrowed. Stepping forward she grabbed Ico's sleeve and tugged, catching his attention once more. "Dolina, vis?" She asked (it sounded like a question) as she mimicked the shape in the air once more, "Quin?"

It was then that there was a disturbance in the forest, as both Klarshaw and Maura came back, bursting onto the scene in a rush. Still, they both moved through the forest with naturalness of a animal, (though, unbeknownst to Ico, all four, yes, four, women thought the same of him) as they approached Claudine, stopping only to give a brisk nod, before turning to face the two children. It was, of course, the Mother who spoke, "It's time. They're under strict orders not to speak to the two of you until notified. Drink and eat if you want, but be ready to head off in a few minutes." As always her words held pure authority, and, this time, finality, and perhaps she would have let it finish there if she had not caught a glance at Yorda's bare feet, for she then looked over at her First and stated, "The girl's going to need some sandals, she won't last in the desert with bare feet."

_That_ caught Ico's attention. "We're going to cross a desert?"

The Mother smiled or as much as a snake can smile, "No. We don't cross a desert. We _live_ in a desert."

It was as if a bolt of lightening struck him. _Of course._

The City of Sandstone.

Salazim was one of the largest and well known cities in the kingdom of Dalazar. Ico had even heard of it almost immediately upon arriving into the country. But, the famous nickname had always been used in relation to the people of the city, as in they were a hardy and sturdy sort. He had never heard before that they had lived in a desert. Or, for that fact, of anyone ever living in a desert before. Suddenly, them traveling so far to get water made sense, but many other questions were swarming his mind now. How did they get food? Why were these women so pale, if they dwelt in the desert? Why did they not find a more hospitable location, and how did a desert city become so prominent in the kingdom? Suddenly, despite the dangers of living in a city, despite the danger to his secret (already compromised), Ico was curious. He wanted to know more.

But he did not have the chance to ask.

Because, before he knew it, he was suddenly being guided out of the forest and into the clearing. Ico froze, and, beside him, so did Yorda. Eyes. Eyes. Eyes everywhere. Young eyes and old eyes, soft eyes and hard eyes, kind eyes and wary eyes. It was too much, far too much, and far too soon. Ico cast his own eyes down to the ground, but that did not aid him at all. He was sensitive to such things, after all.

But Klarshaw was in her element, "Rolina-child," She said to a girl with (Ico did a double take) one eye who was but a few years older than Yorda, "bring the boy two of the spare jars, and Ulias-child wash off the girl's feet and get her some sandals." This the Mother directed to a girl but a couple years younger than Ico, who, with the pointed flight of a arrow, shot into action immediately, while, in contrast, the other girl leisurely made her way to the jars, (which, by the spares, there was a neat stack of nearly twenty or so spears, Ico noticed) lugged them on both shoulders, and then approached him. The boy opened his mouth to thank her, when she just dropped them and then turned around without another word. _Friendly._

Once more, in contrast, while Ico was filling up the two jars, the younger girl, Ulias, had brought Yorda to the lagoon and had been washing her feet there when she let out a yelp of, "Look at that!" Then, eyes widening, she glanced about to either side of her, but noticing that all the other women were talking to themselves, and that Ico nodded at her to go on, Ulias continued in a whisper, "Her feet were dark, so I thought she mighta been injured, but there ain't a mark on her." Sure enough, Ico noticed that as the girl whipped aware the dirt on the soles of Yorda's feet, it revealed only smooth skin and no scars in their wake.

Yorda herself, however, was occupied by another subject entirely, "Obteria!" She happily shouted, pointing at the jar that Ico was currently filling up with water. "Quin sa obteria!" It didn't take him long to understand that she had come to, yet again, another revelation about Gralion. _At this rate, we might have a proper conversation before nightfall._ While an exaggeration, the idea of having a true conversation with Yorda was both exciting and terrifying. So, the boy just pushed away the sudden thought and nodded, letting her know that she understood correctly, while Ulias strapped on Yorda's new footwear, which stole Yorda's attention (with her wiggling her toes and feet over the water's edge) for the remainder of time Ico filled up the second jar. A moment later Ulias returned with two loaves of bread, with slices of cheese wrapped around it, which Ico devoured in moments and Yorda slowly nibbled on ("Zindona era gorson!"). She stopped, however, when she noticed Ico stand up with one jar strapped onto his back via a string and another nestled in his arms. A quick look around to see all the women carrying a single jar as well allowed her to quickly catch on to what was going on.

And, she acted in the way to be suspected.

Yorda jumped to her feet, steadying herself for a moment due to her new sandals, before turning her gaze on Ico again, who was just then readjusting the jar in his arms. He halted. He halted dead in his tracks. It was that look again. Not iron, Ico was use to iron in the depths of Yorda's eyes. No, this was wildness in its most potent, unpolluted form. It was the essence, the energy, that had swept the girl in a fury when she had charged at Klarshaw with her bloody dagger. She held out her thin arms towards Ico expectantly, and her beckoning gestures with her fingers clearly conveyed that she wanted the jar transferred to her. Despite being a boy of action, once more Ico was hesitant, "But Yorda, they're heavy," He began, and, indeed, they were, for already the pressure was bearing down on his back, "and we're going to have to travel across a desert. It's better to – "

For the second time in a short amount of minutes, Yorda interrupted him, be it out of understanding his meaning or at least understanding that what he was stating were excuses, she nevertheless responded firmly, the wildness backed up with iron in equal measure. "Ithe, Ico. Tuea dol gulen melinos. Con mel dol thas." And, with that, she took the jar out of his hands, and, to her credit, didn't show any visible reaction to the weight of it.

Apparently, the other women had been paying attention to them (Indeed, in his haste to try to persuade Yorda not to needlessly strain herself, Ico had completely forgotten them) for the moment Yorda took the jar, the Mother strode away from the group, and, facing them all, stated in a loud, clear voice, "Well, now that is settled, it is time to head out. I'll set the pace, we'll stop twice for rest, and arrive at the city square shortly before the sun sets. As always, children, keep your spears in hand, in heart and in mind, and our Salazim even closer for we go to the desert sands."

At that, a cheer rose up from the multitude that so badly startled Yorda that she nearly dropped the jar she had so desperately fought over.

It turned out that when Klarshaw the Mother of the Salazim Spearsouls sets a pace, she sets it strictly and in marching order, for, before Ico knew it, they were already past the last of the forest thickets and out into the blazing of the sun and the flatness of the desert sands. Wind blew by them, swirling up sand and dust and a wheelbarrow or two, vegetation, spare and dotting and dusty brown, poked out amongst the sands that shifted beneath their feet. A buzzard circled above, as the sun blared into life against the red-hued sky, as if it too wished to glare down at the young horned boy that day.

The boy himself was not concerned one bit by the heat and the blaze, being far use to being out in the sunlight. It appeared that many among the company were also use to the sun's fierce light, for they were of a darker shade than even he, which made their leaders' lightness all the more striking in contrast. But while the two dozen women stretched out before and behind him, for the boy had been placed in the heart of the company, his attention was neither on them nor on their surrounds, but on his young female companion.

Yorda was clearly feeling the harsh conditions of the desert. Sweat was pouring down her face, making her turban, his old Lorendo shawl, cling to her skull and so effecting her white gown that, on their first rest stop, while Ico unstrapped the jar on his back, Maura came up to her and flung a cloak about her shoulders for modesty sake. (Though, she needn't have bothered, Ico had already been careful to keep his eyes honed either on the ground in front of him or on her face to check how Yorda was faring.) Yet, despite all of this and his repeated offers both during the trips and the stop, Yorda refused to let him carrying the jar in his stead, going so far as to snap out his name in a hiss after the fifth time he asked. From then on, he did not offer again.

From then to the next rest stop, nothing truly notable happened, save weight, heat and exhaustion constantly plaguing him. Once more Ico marveled at the fitness of the women, no, the warriors, for, even he was feeling it by then, in that second hour. Yet they showed no signs of slowing, nor any visible strain. In fact, there was a tension about them, a way they viewed their surroundings, scanning for threats with knives or spears within easy reach of their fingertips. This readiness was so striking that Ico began to fear, not for the first time on their trip, that the desert might have more dangers to them than what meet the naked eye.

One thing of note, however, came during the second rest stop for it was then, while the women were all gathering in clumps to speak amongst themselves, that little Ulias managed to slip away and approach the two of them, her pigtails bobbing as she did. The first thing she said, with all the subtlety of a child, was, "So … were you really at the Desindra before it fell?"

For a moment, Ico just blinked at her, before it clicked. "Oh!" He exclaimed, "That." And, deciding to test the waters and because he was actually curious, added, "Just what is the Desindra, anyway?"

Obviously, the girl was not expecting that. "What?" She exclaimed incredulously, but when she felt some of the gazes on her, she bent down to her jar as if to take a sip and then whispered, "You honestly don't know?"

With complete honesty Ico answered, "Today is the first day I ever heard of it."

Coming back up from the sip, Ulias sighed and then continued whispering saying, "Well, that's boring. I thought for sure you both were involved, since you were so close to it and all. Anywho, they say the Desindra is a castle out in the Desinsin Ocean," (Sea, Ico corrected), "where the Accursed One lives. But you know who the Accursed – " She stopped when she saw him shake his head, "Seriously? Uh, the Accursed One is this queen from this old kingdom, who upset this powerful wizard so she had to run away. She used her own magic to build the Desindra and to gather up followers – she use to rule the Tulith forest we just left by the way – where was I? Oh, right! So, she fuels her magic by taking the evil out of those horned boys," That made Ico turn as rigid as a plank of wood, but the girl, luckily, was too caught up in her tale to notice, "So every year people all around deliver her the horned boys to get good luck, also, Mama says that if I'm not a good girl I'd be brought there 'accidentally', but Mama's just a – "

"Just try to finish that sentence."

Both Ico and Ulias turned around in surprise, but for two very different reasons, for, standing before them, was Maura. Ico's eyes widened as Ulias went on, "But Mama," She whined, "You know I didn't mean anything by it." Ico was looking back and forth between them and was not being very subtle about it. _So Ulias is Maura's daughter. Strange. I thought Maura was the youngest of the three of them. _

Maura was not moved, "No Mama, I'm the Third here. You know that. Speaking of _knowing_, you also know you're not suppose to talk to either of them. Now come on, you need to pick up your jar. If lady Yorda can do it, so can you." For, indeed, Yorda stood not even a few feet away from them and was valiantly trying to attach the jar to her back like Ico did with the rope. The entire time while Ulias had been speaking, Yorda had been comparing Ico's handiwork to her own, but had otherwise drowned out all the multiple conversations around her. However, Ico wasn't quite done with this conversation yet, so, he interceded on Ulias' behalf.

"Please, ma'am," Ico stated, "let me ask but a couple more questions before you go." Maura paused a bit at this, throwing a look over her shoulder to where Klarshaw stood bent over a hand draw map in the sand with a couple of others before her before nodding at Ico. Giving her thanks, the boy then addressed Ulias, "Do you know what the name of the queen's kingdom was or the name of the wizard?"

Ulias happily nodded while Maura muttered something about _children _and _legends_. "Yep!" The little girl cried, "The name of the kingdom was Erincard, and they say that it was on the other side of the ocean, where Urridale is now." Urridale. Interesting. Much like Dalazar it was a nation that Ico had heard of before, but unlike this kingdom, Ico had not had a chance to travel through it. If the two of them do end up needing to leave the country, perhaps that could be their next destination, but Ico for now just put that thought away as the girl went on, "As for the wizard, everyone knows him, he's Arrandos the – "

Yorda yelped. Jerked. And the jar crashed to the dirt floor with a thump.

Ico immediately rushed over to go to her aid, while Yorda murmured "Gregar" repeatedly to all onlookers who were startled by the sudden noise, and for once Yorda let him hoist the jar up and strap it around her back. However, while he did, Yorda's voice reached out to him, "Arrandos?" Guiltily, Ico caught her gaze and acknowledgment passed between them. She knew that he had been asking about the Castle, about her past, without her consent, and he knew that she knew it. However, despite Ico's assumption that she would once again get mad (for he didn't know what to think of her, so different she was now) Yorda merely sighed and said, "Later."

He was stunned. Utterly shocked. _Where had she even heard that word?_

But then the last rest stop was done with and they were moving once more.

Compared to the interval before that, this trip seemed to be incredibly short in comparison. Furthermore, during this trip, Yorda thrived. Ico was not sure if it had to do with his speaking about the folk tale with Ulias and their agreement to talk later about it, whether it gave her a sense of purpose, or if the prospect of arriving to their destination had rejuvenated her, but Yorda walked, nay, marched ahead with the same sureness of the warriors around them. Indeed, if her she had been decked in brow and had weapons on her hips, she would have fitted right in with the lot of them. _Perhaps she could make a living among this sisterhood … away from me._ A thought like this had occurred to him earlier, but this time it was not so easy to push it aside, for no matter how he looked at it, he was diminished in Yorda's shadow.

Shadows began to crawl along the sands as the sun began its final descent in the sky, coating the horizon in a shade of blood. It was there, right in the eye of this descending darkness in the haze of red that one of the sisters pointed, and then, suddenly, a cheer rose up with spears shaking up and down (even Ulias was waving about a dagger, for even she was armed). "What?" Ico asked, though he already knew, "What is it?"

He did not know if the prohibition had been lifted or, in the jubilee, the woman simply forgot, but one of the sisters, a short, squat woman with black fingernails and a chipped ear roared, "Salazim! Salazim in sight!" Ico followed her line of sight, but no matter how he looked, all he saw were cliffs. Two. Oh.

_Oh._

By his side Yorda stopped short. He hadn't even noticed that he himself had ceased moving.

There, towering above them all, grasping out to the heavens and casting its slithering shadow over the sands, was Salazim. Two sandstone cliffs jutting out of the desert merged into each other to form a giant U. There, along the cliff faces, Ico could make out carvings, squares, rectangles, with only holes for windows and doors. There were hundreds of homes and buildings carved into the arenite and those were only the ones that were visible. For, crossing over the mouth of the canyon, there stood a giant stone wall, with a closed wood and metal gate, with armored guards patrolling high above. There, above the gate, written in Old Gralion, so it was archaic but yet still distinguishable were the words:

_Salazim, the City of Sandstone, where the unworthy are crushed._

…...

Translation:

Elinm tuean elliacon? : Are you talking about me?

Tuea lagoto co. Tuea corilla co. Era troit tuean ellocon? : You left me. (A expression, similar to "Your head was in the clouds.") You ignored me. What were you (plural) saying about me?

Dolina, vis? : This, right?

Quin? : A shape?

Obteria! : A container! (Literally: A vase to hold flowers in)

Quin sa obteria! : The shape is a container!

Zindona era gorson! : What good people (others) !

Ithe, Ico. Tuea dol gulen melinos. Con mel dol thas : No, Ico. You always do all the work. I can do this.

Gregar: Sorry

Pronunciation/Vocabulary:

Desinsin: Day – sin – sin. The body of water around the Castle (Desindra)

Tulith Forest: Tool – lith. The forest that the entirety of the story has so far taken place in.

Erincard – Air – rin – card. Salazim name for Traimalle's former kingdom.

Urridale: Your - re – dale. A present day country, the assumed location of Erincard.

Arrandos: Are – ran – does. Name of man who pushes Traimalle out of her kingdom. Yorda reacts to his name.

So yeah … I'm still alive folks.

I'm planning on doing some major overhaul to my stories on this site. Updating some, taking down others, but all in all, it means more activity from me from now to the foreseeable future. I just wish it hadn't taken me this long to finally get about to it, hopefully if my old fans are around this is a much needed boon and for any new readers, I hope you like the story!

One last thing before I end. My latest reviewer, by the name of Polar, asked me "What's with the stumps?", however, since he signed in anonymously, I couldn't answer via message like I normally do, but since it's relating to something I wanted to discuss anyway, I thought it best to mention it now.

The stumps, along with the iron (and now wildness) in Yorda's eyes, the blades for the Spearsouls, and now the sandstone for Salazim, are all symbols that relates to specific traits of each character. The horns/stumps for Ico represent his childhood trauma and all the negative associations that come along with it, and thus, whenever any insecurities plague him, in relation to that trauma, I often mention about his "stumps" or "head" burning, causing him pain. The iron represents the firmness or strength to Yorda's character, which is in opposition to her perceived weakness or frailty as portrayed in the game and in Ico's mind. This iron is just raw material, it merely exists within her at the moment, but, like all metals, it can be shaped into different forms. The Spearsouls are a portrayal, a foil, for something Yorda could turn into, and the wildness shows that the "iron" in her is changing, but to what, is still up for grabs. As for the sandstone and how it relates to Salazim, that I won't tell you, since you haven't really been exposed to the city yet.

I hope clarifies things, and if any of you have any further questions, feel free to ask.

Have a nice weekend!


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